


The Mayfly Detective

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Story: The Adventure of the Gloria Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is married and Sherlock is fine. Really. He’s always been content to spend time in the comfort of his own Mind Palace, and besides, he has a case to work on. All he has to do is pick up an old habit and seduce Janine. But this unexpectedly brings back memories of his first case, and leads him to reassess his relationship with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue from various episodes courtesy of Ariane DeVere’s transcripts.
> 
> Many thanks to [Zinelady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zinelady) and [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vilestrumpet) for providing sounding boards and sanity checks!

Sherlock stared at John’s email on his laptop. Not only did it contain way too much information about the progress of Mary’s pregnancy in the scant two weeks that they’d been away, but it was also accompanied by several pictures of the happy couple on honeymoon, including a rather disturbing selfie of them both in their swimming costumes.

At least, Sherlock assumed they were wearing swimming costumes. The shot only included their heads and torsos; Mary appeared to be wearing a navy blue bra with dolphins on the left cup, while John was bare-chested, the faint scar on his left shoulder just visible as he held out the phone to take the picture.

“Not exactly relevant to your case, is it?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn’t need the imaginary version of his big brother to tell him that. John and Mary were away on their Sex Holiday; they were obviously irrelevant to the blackmail case Lady Smallwood had brought him the night before. In fact, after months of preparing their wedding, it was rather nice to not have them under his feet at Baker Street anymore. He took one last look at the picture and fired off a terse reply expressing positive sentiments.

Once that was done, Sherlock lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ll be very disappointed when I find out you’ve taken up smoking again,” said John, sitting in his usual chair opposite Sherlock’s desk. “Those things will kill you eventually.”

“I’m sure something else will beat them to it.” Sherlock waved the cigarette at the vision. “Anyway, you’re not here. Go away.”

He turned back to the picture of Magnussen on his Wikipedia page. The thought of the man blackmailing Lady Smallwood’s husband made his skin crawl. 

_“He’s dead,” said Victor, his handsome face contorted with rage and grief. “That bastard killed him.”_

_Sherlock looked down at the man—the corpse—laid out on the bed. He’d never seen a dead body in real life before, let alone the body of someone he had known. He felt strange, as if something was twisting his guts. He didn’t want Mr Trevor to be dead._

_“I don’t know what he had on him,” said Victor, “but it was eating Dad inside. He wasn’t the same after Hudson arrived. The doctor said he was sick anyway, and that it’s probably an accidental overdose. I suppose that’s what the coroner will say, but I don’t think so. Dad was terrified.”_

_Sherlock had been looking around the room as Victor spoke, his eyes drawn to anything that wasn’t Mr Trevor’s unnaturally still features. A small object on the table on the other side of the bed caught his attention. He went to look at it more closely as Victor continued to rage._

_“And now that bastard has run off God knows where and I don’t even know what he was blackmailing Dad about. We’ll never find out!”_

_“Not necessarily,” said Sherlock._

_He showed his friend the video tape with Victor’s name written on it. Underneath, there was a photograph with the caption “Gloria Scott”._

“Sentiment, my dear brother, will get you nowhere.”

Swallowing back a nauseating wave of hatred for Magnussen and blackmailers like him, Sherlock pictured the lobby of his Mind Palace, considering which door to open first. Where should he go? Mycroft’s office, since the subconscious version of his bother wanted to talk to him? Or a more neutral location, like a park or a café? He chose something more comfortable.

“Home turf,” commented the Mind Palace Mycroft, sitting in John’s chair. “Feeling insecure?”

“I need a way to get those letters back.”

“Have you tried asking nicely?”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on his desk. “Magnussen is secretive and well-protected. I need a way to get to him. Attracting his attention shouldn’t be too hard. Expose a weakness, let him try to blackmail me.”

“A little crude. And risky. That might lower his guard, but it’s unlikely to get you the letters. You need information. Find out his weaknesses too.”

Sherlock gestured at the Mind Palace version of his living room. “That’s why I need to think.”

“Yes. Well, you won’t learn anything here.”

The venue changed and Sherlock was standing in the wedding hall again, facing the hundred guests and participants, frozen at the moment he had raised his glass to the happy couple. The only difference with reality was that Mycroft was standing on the other side of the table, opposite John and Mary. Sherlock sighed and put the champagne glass down.

“You’re supposed to be helping me solve Lady Smallwood’s case, not reminiscing. You weren’t even at the wedding.”

“This isn’t about the wedding,” said Mycroft. “It’s about what happened at the wedding.”

Sherlock turned to his right, where the happy couple were staring into each other’s eyes. “John and Mary got married.”

“No, what else happened at the wedding?”

Sherlock looked to his left. The girl in the purple dress was frozen in place, her glass halfway to her lips. “I met that girl who liked to dance. Can’t remember her name. Janice? Jeanette? I liked her.”

“Janine. Really, brother mine, you are spending too much time with your friends. You’re losing your focus. A few years ago, the right answer would have been your first. _What happened at the wedding?_ “

The room cleared, all the people disappearing except two, one sitting in his uniform at the other end of the room, and the other standing in the opposite corner, holding a camera.

“I solved a crime. Sholto’s attempted murder.”

“Yes. So how do you get to a man who is secretive and well-protected?”

“Get to know the people around him, especially the women, and seduce them if necessary. Just like the Mayfly Man.”

At his desk in the real world, Sherlock started researching all the people connected to Magnussen. He began with the staff at Appledore, Magnussen’s residence in the Cotswolds. Housekeeper, chauffeurs, bodyguards, maid, gardener... The seats in the wedding hall in his Mind Palace began to fill up. Some had faces, provided by blurry Facebook or LinkedIn mug shots. Others were faceless, vague impressions of men and women, occasionally with a uniform or a speculative skin colour based on their occupation, name or nationality.

“An impressive list of staff and ex-staff,” said Mycroft, looking around at the partially filled tables around him. “But they’re all in committed relationships or too old not to be suspicious if you were to make advances.”

“Not to mention ugly,” added Sherlock, placing himself in the centre of the room so he could visualise the people he had researched.

Even in the comfort of his own imagination, Sherlock took some satisfaction from the surprised look on his brother’s face. “Ugly? I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t. Women don’t interest me. Or men. But someone unappealing might be more suspicious if I approached them.”

“On the contrary, they might be flattered,” said Mary, sitting at the top table in her wedding dress. “Sometimes, when you really want something to be true, you can’t see the warning signs. It’s very easy to deceive people when you’re giving them what they want.” She placed her hand on John’s, still frozen beside her. “Anyway, I think you’re looking in the wrong place. Magnussen is a very busy man. How much time does he actually spend at home?”

Sherlock nodded. “Good point.”

He hacked into the personnel files at Magnussen’s London office. A new set of tables started to fill in. Everyone had a face this time, provided by the company’s well-meaning but inadequately firewalled HR department. Chief financial officer, chief technical officer, cleaners, secretaries, PA...

Sherlock turned slowly to look again at the top table. Janine the bridesmaid had reappeared. When she caught his eye, she raised her glass and smiled at him.

“Janine the bridesmaid is Magnussen’s PA,” said Sherlock.

He shifted his focus so that Janine was in front of him, looking up at him expectantly. All the other people he had imagined were eclipsed as Janine stood in the full spotlight of his attention, information swirling around her as he recalled everything he remembered from their brief encounter. Irish with a Pakistani father. Living in London for the last few years. Long enough to have known Mary for at least a year before becoming her chief bridesmaid.

“We met through her ex, David,” explained Janine, voicing details she had mentioned to him and which he had almost deleted. “He worked for Magnussen for a while. I was just one of the secretaries at the time. I only became Magnussen’s PA a month ago. I don’t like it. He’s a creep.”

“What are the odds that Mary’s best friend would just happen to be relevant to the very first case you take after the wedding?” asked Mycroft.

“Close to negligible,” said Sherlock. “But Magnussen employs a lot of people. It’s a plausible coincidence.”

“You know what we think about coincidences,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock turned once more towards the top table. John was still frozen, his eyes on his bride, but Mary was watching them.

“The universe wouldn’t be that lazy,” said Mary. She smiled sweetly. “So you need to ask yourself. Did I befriend her because she works for Magnussen, or did she befriend me because I was going out with John Watson, sidekick of the famous detective with the hat?”

“The latter,” said Sherlock without hesitation.

“Janine and Mary knew each other before Mary met John,” pointed out Mycroft.

“Mary is having John’s baby,” said Sherlock decisively. “She isn’t part of this case.”

The happy couple vanished, deleted from the scene. Sherlock observed his mental image of Janine. She grabbed his arm possessively, just as she had done at the wedding.

“Maybe Magnussen promoted me because my best friend was going out with Hatman’s Robin,” she said cheerfully. “On the plus side, you won’t need an introduction to get to know me. And seduction should be rather easy, don’t you think?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Not a bad place for a knees-up,” commented Lestrade. 

Sherlock didn’t answer because he knew that talking out loud to the people in his Mind Palace did not go down well in the real world. Anyway, although he liked to use Lestrade to channel all his pub-related knowledge, Sherlock didn’t feel the need to communicate with him. He sipped his drink–orange and lemonade, he was never risking alcohol again–and looked around. 

The pub was crowded. Typical Friday night in the City; men and women in their business suits, unwinding with a pint or two—or three or four—before taking the last Tubes and trains back to suburbia. The group closest to him were bankers; all men, well groomed, expensive suits, Rolex and Patek Philippe watches. Celebrating something specific. Not a big work deal, something more intimate. An engagement? No. He observed the man they were congratulating. A baby. The man had just become a father.

Sherlock pictured John standing there in a few months’ time, celebrating with his friends; his _other_ friends, like Bill Murray from Afghanistan, Mike Stamford, that annoying Ted who was married to the equally annoying Sheila, and Greg Lestrade, probably. He’d invite Sherlock, no doubt, but Sherlock might have to make some excuse not to come, as the company of drunken men was never his choice of evening entertainment. That was why he hadn’t invited any of those people to the stag do. 

The stag do. It had been just the two of them. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, one last time.

_They were playing a stupid game in the living room at 221B. Sherlock had been in favour of reviewing his collection of gruesome murder photographs to select the best ones to show the page boy if he was good, but John had suggested the game. It was John’s night, and it was still only about nine-thirty, so they’d played the game._

_“You know we don’t have a king?” John was saying, though now Sherlock couldn’t even remember the context._

_“Don’t we?” Sherlock remembered something about God Save The Queen from his childhood, but he’d assumed they had moved on from that one by now. After all, his childhood was a long time ago. On the other hand, his parents were still alive and healthy so maybe the queen was too._

_John laughed. “No.”_

_“Your go,” said Sherlock, dismissing that pointless information and leaning back to drink the whisky Mrs Hudson had provided as a “night cap” when they said they were going upstairs._

_John sat on the edge of his chair but started to slide off it. He had to steady himself with one hand on Sherlock’s knee—the right-hand knee—and push himself back up again. They both looked down at John’s hand on Sherlock’s knee and there was something... Something significant about that gesture, a thing that meant something to normal people._

_John lifted his hand with a little embarrassed smile. “I don’t mind.”_

“Sentiment again, dear brother.”

“I don’t mind,” repeated the John in Sherlock’s imagination, raising his glass to celebrate Mary giving birth to their child in the future. 

“You’re supposed to be seducing me,” said Janine, suddenly appearing beside Sherlock, still in the purple bridesmaid’s dress. “Not reminiscing about the stag do.”

“Yes,” murmured Sherlock, dragging his attention back to the group of young women growing increasingly drunk in the corner of the room. 

The real life Janine had her back to him. She was still in her work clothes; high-heeled shoes, pencil skirt hugging her wide hips, cream-coloured blouse just transparent enough to reveal the outline of a white bra.

“If I’m still with the geek, I won’t be looking around,” explained Janine. “I’ll just talk with my mates and you’ll have to go over there and bump into me to get my attention.”

The real Janine said something that made the other girls laugh. Sherlock wondered what it was like to be someone like that, who could talk to other people so easily and make them laugh with her.

“If, on the other hand, I’m single and on the lookout for romance,” continued Janine, “I’ll start looking around soon. This is a prime hunting ground full of eligible men.”

A handsome young man stumbled past the real Janine, his eyes on the three pints of lager gathered precariously in his hands. Janine turned and looked him over, then started to scan the room as she continued to talk to her friends.

“I’m definitely hunting,” said Janine, pulling up her strapless bridesmaid’s dress.

“The question is, do you really want to be caught, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. “This isn’t exactly your area.”

“You enjoyed my company at the wedding,” pointed out Janine. “And I liked you. I flirted with you. All you’ll have to do is let me notice you and I’ll do the rest.”

Sherlock pretended to be engrossed in his phone as he pondered the situation. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Bingo,” commented the imaginary Janine. “I’m heading this way. See, no effort required.”

Using the phone’s camera to observe her as she pushed through the crowd, Sherlock was able to assess his chances of striking up a temporary romantic relationship with Janine. The determination with which she was approaching him and the subconscious way she licked her carmine-painted lips told him everything he needed to know about the state of her relationship with the geek. He let the information flow. Single. Slightly intoxicated. Works long hours. Hates her job. Currently ovulating. Dress size 14.

“Attracted to you,” added Lestrade. “You’ll have no difficulty getting information on Magnussen.”

Sherlock dismissed his Mind Palace friends and pretended to have only just noticed Janine. She gave him a crooked smile.

“Hello, handsome,” she said, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze.

“Janine! What are you doing here?” asked Sherlock before she had a chance to ask him the same question.

“Night out with the girls,” she said, barely gesturing in their direction. The ‘girls’ were clearly dismissed for tonight. “Are you on a case?”

“Yes.” That had the benefit of being true. “But I’m—” His turn for a vague gesture with his phone. He guessed she didn’t really care why he was here. Only lies had details. “How did things go with the geek?”

“Oh, grand, grand. You were right. The sex was amazing,” she said with an enthusiastic roll of her eyes. “But I’m not really into _Star Trek_ , you know? So we shagged like bunnies for a weekend and then we agreed we’d go our separate ways. That was a good tip, though. I needed a good shag after— well, I suppose I should thank you.”

Sherlock stared at her. He was pretty sure he was supposed to say something witty at this point. Nothing came to mind.

“You should ask her out,” suggested Lestrade.

What was Molly always trying to get him to do—have coffee? Would that be appropriate at this hour? Sherlock considered retreating to his Mind Palace to consult his data on the subject, though he knew that the ensuing silence and apparently irrational movements tended to freak people out in real life. He didn’t think freaking Janine out was a good idea now he had found a use for her. On the other hand, he didn’t know what to say.

“Listen, I’d love to catch up with you,” she said brightly, squeezing his arm again. “Do you fancy going somewhere quieter for a bite to eat? I know a great Italian restaurant around the corner.”

Maybe this was going to be easy after all.


	3. Chapter 3

“All things considered, that went rather well,” commented Mycroft. “You now know the full nature of Janine’s job, the exact location of Magnussen’s office in his City tower, the operating system on his company’s servers, the make and model of his laptop, tablet and phone, and the fact he is wont to brag about his ‘vaults’ at Appledore. Nothing you couldn’t have found out by other means, but not bad for a couple of hours of pretending to be _nice_.”

Sherlock half-smiled and looked around the 221b living-room he had conjured up in his mind. His brother was standing by the fireplace. There had been a time not so long ago when Mycroft was virtually banished from the Mind Palace, but Sherlock was finding his abrasive presence almost reassuring these days. Not enough for Sherlock to admit defeat and actually visit Mycroft in person, of course; that would suggest that Mycroft was right about Sherlock spending more time with his brother now that John was gone.

“The Appledore vaults would be the best place to start,” continued Mycroft. “Find out who the architect was and obtain the construction plans. Then devise a way to gain access to the house.”

“The letters are more likely to be in London,” said Mary, suddenly appearing in John’s chair. “It would make sense for Magnussen to keep them close so he can show them to Lady Smallwood to keep her in check.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Magnussen doesn’t need to show them to anyone. The mere knowledge of their existence is sufficient to strike fear in the Smallwoods’ hearts. He can print anything he likes; lies live forever on the Internet. A retraction does nothing to lift the general public’s suspicion that what was printed must be true. There are plenty of people who still believe you are a fraud. The hundreds of articles published at the time of your ‘death’ and which still turn up in a Google search are there to prove it.”

Sherlock felt something warm on his hand and looked down. He blinked, placing himself back in reality. They were in the cab on their way back to Janine’s after their impromptu dinner at the Italian restaurant near the pub. The meal had been pleasant; the food was only passable, but Janine had divulged a great deal of information and Sherlock had enjoyed spending a couple of hours in the company of someone else than his skull for the first time since the wedding. When they left the restaurant, Sherlock decided to cultivate Janine’s continued cooperation and opted to be chivalrous and see her home. Then his mind had drifted back to the case.

Janine’s hand was on top of Sherlock’s—it felt rather pleasant, warm and soft—and she looked concerned.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You looked a little distant there.”

“Yes, sorry, you were saying?”

“Oh, I was asking if you knew what time John and Mary get back tomorrow.”

Sherlock pictured the photograph of John and Mary, the one where John wasn’t wearing a shirt. Flat, square chest, slight hint of moobs and love handles—though the angle of the camera in his outstretched hand probably didn’t help. Sherlock shifted his attention to the email that had accompanied it.

“Eleven forty-two pm,” he said, reading the mental image. He also recalled a headline from the travel information on the BBC website and added, “Though given the delays on their airline these past few days, it’s more likely to be around one o’clock in the morning. Still, Mike Stamford is picking them up, as I recall.”

“Oh grand. I couldn’t remember what time it said in their email.”

Sherlock once again asked himself how people apparently in possession of a functioning brain could still forget details that were important to them. 

“Goldfish, dear brother. And Janine is definitely a goldfish.”

“I’ll probably be seeing Mary next weekend. She emailed and said she had some news to tell me.” Janine raised her eyebrows and gave Sherlock a significant look. “I think I can imagine what that’ll be. She was sick on the morning of the wedding, you know, when we were all getting into our dresses. The other girls and I all thought there was something up with that.”

“Right,” said Sherlock tersely. He had promised not to tell, after all.

“And then she kept complaining about the wine, even though she’d been raving about it when we went to that wine tasting a couple of months ago. God, that was a good night, but I had a mother of a hangover the next day! I thought it was weird Mary didn’t like the wine anymore. You know, my cousin Siobhan was just the same when she was expecting. She’d always loved Marmite, ever since she was a child. When she was pregnant, she wouldn’t touch it. Couldn’t stand the stuff.”

“Can’t say I blame her,” said Sherlock. He caught Janine’s eye and they both laughed. “It’s best not to anticipate what Mary might have to tell you. Even if she is pregnant, the statistical probability of a miscarriage rises from 6 percent before a woman reaches 35, to 23 percent after the age of 40. And that’s leaving aside the increased risk of abnormalities—”

_“Shut up,” said John, interrupting Sherlock as he was about to list the statistics. Sherlock stared at him, cut short in mid-sentence. Dance music filled the pause. “Just… shut up.”_

“I see it’s being so cheerful as keeps you going!” said Janine with amusement. “I suppose you deduced it from the lint on her dress or something. Not obvious things like her being sick, having an increased appetite and her tastes changing, like the rest of us mere mortals.” She squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t let the cat out of the bag. I’ll let her tell me herself if she wants to.”

Sherlock observed Janine with curiosity. “You’re a bit cleverer than I thought.”

“Oh, thanks.” Janine laughed again. “Glad to know you don’t think I’m a _complete_ eejit. Ah, here we are.” The cab came to a stop outside a block of flats. “Home sweet home.”

Sherlock got out and looked up at the building. Built in the Nineties, inhabited mainly by young professionals like Janine. Twenty-six flats in total. One to the front of the building, on the third floor, was unoccupied. The people on the ground floor flat were a couple with a baby, little boy, keen cyclists, originally from Jamaica but now—

“You wally,” said his subconscious John.

Sherlock looked around to find that Janine had paid the cabbie and the vehicle was now disappearing down the road.

“I wanted the cab to wait,” said Sherlock with irritation. “I’m not taking the Tube at this time on a Friday night. It’s full of drunk people.”

Janine followed his gaze. “Ah, I didn’t think. I mean, you got out... um, well, you can come up and call for another cab? I’ll make you a coffee while you wait.” She put her purse away and fumbled for her keys in her handbag. “My flatmate is in, but she’ll be okay if we’re quiet. Lord knows she makes plenty of noise when her boyfriend is over from Italy. So, you know, you can come up—”

Her voice trailed off when she found her keys and she looked at him hopefully. Sherlock stared at her. She was licking her lips, her breathing rate had increased, and though in this light, it was hard to see her pupils in her brown eyes, he was certain they were dilated. At the prospect of having coffee with him? 

“Sherlock, you’re not that naïve,” said John’s voice in his mind. “Not anymore.”

He re-parsed what she had suggested in the light of what it might actually mean. Oh. Right.

“On the other hand, sex is out of the question,” pointed out Mycroft. “You could never sustain that level of deceit.”

“I could,” protested Sherlock. He tried to imagine having sex with Janine. His imagination didn’t want to go any further than holding her in his arms as he had done when they were dancing at the wedding. Maybe his subconscious was right. “I mean, I, um, I—” 

“Time for a graceful exit, brother mine.”

“I’m sorry, I’m very flattered but I have work to do,” blurted out Sherlock. “Tonight. I was—I was working on a case. I’ll catch a cab on the main road.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you were on a case.” She looked a bit disappointed, but laughed. “Actually, I should turn in too. My boss has been summoned by the Select Committee for Culture, Media and Sport at the House of Lords again next week and I’m sure he’ll need me to prepare some documents for him. He loves to drag me out of bed at six am when I’ve been out the night before. I think the gobshite does it on purpose.” She half-turned towards the door, key poised, but then faced Sherlock. “It’s been nice seeing you again. Good night, Sherlock Holmes.”

Janine put one hand on his shoulder and moved forward, her face tilted upward and her lips slightly puckered. 

She was going to kiss him. Given her attempt to lure him upstairs for “coffee”, Sherlock assumed she was going to kiss him on the lips. All in a rush, he remembered the overwhelming sensation of lips against his, the tongue sliding into his mouth, that unhygienic, inexplicably arousing sensation that had made him tremble with excitement and forget for one dizzying moment who was doing this to him. 

He also remembered the feeling of rejection that had followed when he was turfed out of the room. And the effect it had on his friendship with Victor.

_“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll—I’ll kill you!” hissed Victor._

_Of course, Sherlock knew that was an idle threat, but he was surprised by his friend’s reaction._

_“It was only a kiss,” Sherlock pointed out. “And maybe a bit of groping,” he conceded._

_“You don’t get it, do you? If this gets out, I’m finished. I can kiss goodbye to becoming an MP, let alone being in the Cabinet!”_

_Sherlock wanted to point out that Victor’s ambitions were stupid anyway, but the minicab arrived just at that moment to take him to the station. Victor nodded curtly at him and went back into the house without another word._

_Sitting in the back of the Vauxhall Astra as it drove off down the long driveway, Sherlock watched Donnithorpe disappear through the rear windscreen._

_“I told you human relationships were a waste of time,” said his mental image of his brother. Mycroft was immensely fatter and less authoritative in those days, but just as dismissive of love and friendship as he was in his middle age. “Don’t get involved.”_

_On that occasion, Sherlock reflected that his brother was probably right. It was a lesson he never forgot._

Distracted by the memory, Sherlock took a step backwards and Janine had to brace herself against the door to stop from stumbling. She lowered the hand she’d placed on Sherlock’s shoulder and raised her hands in a calming gesture.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! No, I wasn’t trying to, you know, I mean, I know you’re not... I was just, um.” She indicated his cheek. “Anyway. You’re sure you don’t want to come up and have a chat while you wait for the cab?”

Sherlock put on his most appealing smile and tried not to look like a weirdo who freaked out when a girl tried to kiss him. “I’m sorry, I really must go.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Good night, Janine. Maybe we can do this again some time.”

He turned before she could make any further advances and walked back to the main road, turning up his collar against the cool evening air. 

When Sherlock hailed a cab down the street, his imaginary John was sitting in the back seat.

“That went well,” said John sarcastically. “You know why the Mayfly Man was successful, don’t you? Because the women genuinely thought he was interested in them. I don’t think that peck on the cheek did much to convince Janine.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Sherlock looked out of the window. He pictured Magnussen blackmailing the Smallwoods to steel his resolve.

“Perhaps it would be best to return to your original plan after all,” said Mycroft, apparently taking John’s place. “Make Magnussen believe he can blackmail you, and use that to lower his guard. He might even be tempted to use your services and thus offer you an ideal opportunity to gain access to any compromising material he might possess. Two approaches might yield better results than one.”

Sherlock looked at the empty seat beside him and wondered what the real John would have made of all this if he were still working with Sherlock and sitting there in the cab with him. He would probably disapprove of both the plans. 

But John wasn’t here.

“Yes, I’ll give him some material for blackmail,” said Sherlock out loud, ignoring the puzzled look the cab driver gave him. “I know just the thing to use, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

John was fiddling with a bicycle outside his house. He had borrowed it from someone—probably a work colleague—and knew very little about its maintenance and care. Whatever he was trying to do was unsuccessful; he abandoned his efforts after a couple of minutes and straightened up, stretching in the afternoon sunlight. His T-shirt rode up, uncovering a strip of suntanned stomach with just a touch of middle aged paunch. So it hadn’t been the camera angle after all.

Sherlock exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched him from the shadow of one of the trees on the green. John looked older. Though it had only been two weeks since he last saw him at the wedding, Sherlock was struck by how grey his hair was, how lined his face was becoming as he advanced into middle age, his even features and large blue eyes roughened by the lines and pits on his skin.

“I don’t know what you see in him,” said Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t even bother to imagine his brother in this sunny domestic setting.

“He’s my best friend,” said Sherlock with a shrug.

“He _was_ your best friend. Now he has found another best friend. His wife. He has moved on, like every other ‘friend’ you’ve ever had. Remember Victor? You should leave him alone.”

“I _am_ leaving him alone,” muttered Sherlock, taking a drag from his cigarette.

After his meeting—could it even be called a 'date'?—with Janine the previous Friday, Sherlock had gone back to work, researching Magnussen's house while also looking for an opportunity to pique his interest.

"It's a happy coincidence that the latter has brought you here to spy on your friends," said Mycroft sardonically.

"Yes. It's a convenient location and the boy in question probably doesn't even know who I am."

Mary appeared at the door, a dishcloth in her hands and her short blonde hair unkempt. John was crouching by the bicycle again and didn’t notice her at first. Mary stood at the top of the steps, watching him for a moment.

“She looks scared,” said Molly, a rare participant in the Mind Palace. Sherlock pictured her lopsided, thin lips forming the words in her hesitant manner. “She always looks scared when she thinks no one is watching. As if she’s afraid he’ll leave her.”

Absorbed in what he was doing, John still hadn’t noticed his wife. Mary looked around, her eyes scanning the roofs and windows opposite, concern lining her pale face. Sherlock turned away when her gaze dropped to him, letting his raised hood conceal his features. 

“I used to live a dangerous life,” said an imaginary version of Mary beside him. “Like that girl from Srebrenica you met in Sarajevo.”

Sherlock dismissed that unsolicited insight. When he looked back at them again, John was talking to Mary and her face was lit up with a tender smile, the worry gone. She was back to the cheerful Mary that Sherlock liked so much. 

“How about concentrating on your case?” suggested Mycroft. “Here comes your mark.”

Sherlock watched the young black man leaving the house next to the Watsons’. Unsteady gait, blank expression, a vague greeting thrown in John and Mary’s direction. An addict searching for a fix.

“Your informant was right. Now all you need to do is follow him and he’ll lead you to the drugs. Good way to kill two birds with one stone. Keep an eye on John and give Magnussen an easy option for blackmail. Just stay away from the drugs and this will work out fine.”

Sherlock left his tree and walked away on the opposite side of the green, parallel to the young man.

“I wonder what I was looking for,” said Mary, apparently following him up the street.

“Mary is expecting a baby and she lives next to a drug addict. Maybe she’s just looking out for unsavoury characters in hoodies lurking around her house.” Sherlock could just imagine the disapproving look that would have accompanied such a statement had his brother really been there to make it. “I’m not surprised she didn’t recognise you in your current state.” 

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction at that thought. He hadn’t washed or shaved for a couple of days and was wearing old street clothes one of his contacts had given him. He had even broken the habit of a lifetime and spent a couple of hours in the park the previous day, exposing his face to the sunshine to give it some colour. Much to his disgust, that had merely made his face look dirty and provoked an outbreak of freckles. 

He paused on the corner of the street and looked back one last time. John and Mary were still discussing the bicycle. They were laughing, standing in each other’s arms on the doorstep of their family home. As Sherlock watched, John leaned over and kissed Mary’s cheek. He looked happy.

“I wonder what it would be like to have someone like that,” said Molly wistfully. Apparently, in his imagination, she wasn’t engaged to … Tom, was it? “Someone you can just hold in your arms to laugh with at the stupid little things in life.”

“No idea,” mumbled Sherlock. “I’ve never felt the need to find out, either.”

He stared at the Watsons for a moment longer, then turned to follow the addict down the road.


	5. Chapter 5

Whoever had invented crack was a genius. Or was it whoever had invented cracks was a genius? Sherlock peered at the cracks in the plastered ceiling high above him. He let his mind wander, mushy and sluggish, almost normal in its concerns and preoccupations now that its chemistry was affected by the drug.

He didn’t need his Mind Palace. Everything was very simple right now. Sherlock was on top of the world. It didn’t matter if Lady Smallwood’s husband got blackmailed, or that John was married, or that this place Sherlock was lying in was littered with drug addicts, laid out on the floor like the victims of some natural disaster. Nothing mattered and it made Sherlock feel great.

He hadn't originally intended to take the drugs when the shady character with the weird eyes offered them to him. The plan had been to come in and lie low; observe the other users, get the layout of the building, plan how to draw Magnussen’s attention to it without also arousing the suspicions of Mycroft’s minions. But then on the other hand, when in Rome…

“Hey. I know you. You’re ‘im off the telly.” 

His dealer for the day was sitting on the mat opposite. Sherlock observed him briefly. Homeless man in his thirties, all his personal possessions in an old rucksack. Making a quick buck by watching over this place for the real criminals who supplied the drugs. Occasional user, not a hardened addict. Good affinity for chemistry; the crack he’d mixed up for Sherlock was quite acceptable. Not the brightest tool in the box. Despite the knife in his pocket, he didn’t pose any danger.

“I was wondering when you came in, but now I know. You’re that detective. The one with the ‘at.”

Okay, to be fair, the purpose of the whole exercise was to attract Magnussen’s attention, so Sherlock wasn’t exactly here incognito. The homeless clothes were largely designed to give the impression that he was down on his luck. Still, having stopped short of striding in with his coat and that idiotic hat, Sherlock had hoped he might enjoy a little privacy for a while.

“The one with the ‘at,” repeated Sherlock disdainfully, his voice rough and drowsy. “Is that what I’ve become?”

“Well, yeah. Hatman and Robin, innit?” The man held out his hand as if they were being formally introduced. “I’m—”

“Bill Wiggins, yes, I know.”

“Wow, I read about you in the papers. How you can guess things about people just by looking at them. But that’s incredible! How did you, you know, ‘deduce’ my name?”

“It’s written on your rucksack.”

Sherlock lay back and pointedly closed his eyes. He’d spent most of the last few days holed up in the flat, working without a break to further his case, and combined with his earlier high, he felt quite sleepy. He thought about the infamous hat, and about his coat. Though he really liked the coat, he wondered if he should get a different one. Something less distinctive, that John would approve of. Though John wore awful clothes. Like that t-shirt that rode up and exposed his slightly flabby stomach.

“Are you following that boy for a case?” asked Wiggins in a confidential tone. “You looked like you were following him here.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at the boy lying at the far end of the room. John’s neighbour. Probably no more than seventeen or eighteen, still living with his parents, younger than Sherlock had been when he started on hard drugs.

_Sherlock watched in fascination as the man tapped out cocaine from the small sachet onto the polished coffee table. Everything about the man screamed money; his expensive Gucci robe, the ornate furniture in his living room, the obvious cosmetic surgery on his overweight face. There was even a Ming vase in the corner. It was a strange contrast to the bustling, grubby street outside, where tourists and barely disguised prostitutes mixed with the inhabitants of Chinatown just a block away._

_The man didn’t talk to him. Sherlock had introduced himself as a private investigator, but he wasn’t sure his carefully chosen suit and glasses were enough to back the lie. Mycroft always said people were idiots, but Sherlock had a feeling this man, at least, was intelligent enough to recognise a twenty-one-year-old student on a day trip from Cambridge when he saw one._

_Sherlock tore his eyes away from the powder on the table and took a closer look at the photographs arranged on the wall beside him. He stared at one of the faces with a jolt of recognition; large blue eyes under heavy false eyelashes, a strong jaw and straight nose in a pretty face framed with blonde hair. The same picture Mr Trevor had left on his bedside table the day he died._

_“Ah yes. Lovely Gloria,” said the club owner, following Sherlock’s gaze. He chuckled and leaned over the table, patting the cocaine into two narrow strips with a faded seaside postcard. “Very popular with the customers. Left a few years ago. No idea what happened. Shacked up with some bloke, I suppose.”_

_“I’m not interested in Gloria Scott. I told you, I’m looking for Hudson.” Sherlock tried to sound authoritative, like a cop in a television show. “He worked as a bouncer here.”_

_The man didn’t answer for a moment; Sherlock observed him with interest as he snorted the cocaine from the table. At that time, Sherlock had never taken anything stronger than the uppers and downers they handed out at university parties—the main reason he attended parties, to be honest, though he enjoyed them more when the dancing started—but he had always thought he might investigate the effects of harder drugs some day. Once his studies were over, though, just to be on the safe side._

_“Oh, I remember Hudson well enough, don’t you worry.” The man straightened up and looked Sherlock over with curiosity. “You look a bit posh to be messing with the likes of him. Short-change you, did he? Swindle you out of Daddy’s trust fund?” He shrugged when Sherlock didn’t answer. “He left a while ago too. Got mixed up in a spot of bother down in Brixton. Bit partial to guns and had a bit of a temper. Not really the sort I wanted hanging around my girls.”_

_Sherlock hesitated. The man made him uncomfortable and he felt out of his depth, down here in London where everything was busy and dirty. He wasn’t even sure that there was any point to this quest. Victor was right; Mr Trevor was dead and chasing this Hudson character, with no actual evidence that he was involved in Trevor’s death, was probably a waste of time._

_The man leaned back with a knowing smile. He waved at the coffee table and held out a straw. “My new supplier is just as good. I can introduce you if you like. Help yourself.”_

_Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock leaned down and imitated the man. The sensation of aspirating the powder was odd; Sherlock thought he would prefer some other means of administration. Something to experiment with when he had some spare time. By the time he straightened up, his mind was clearer and his confidence had returned._

_“I need to find Hudson,” he said firmly. “He’s a criminal. I have to bring him to justice.”_

_“Caped avenger, are you?” The man laughed. “Well, you won’t find him around here, mate. Last I heard, he was in Florida.”_

That was a long time ago now. Many years—and many drugs—ago. Sherlock stared at the young man a moment longer and pictured the future that lay before him. He was too addicted already to hold down a job. He would live off his mother for a while, then resort to petty crime to feed his habit when her patience or her benefits ran out. End up in jail where the inmates would teach him to be a real criminal. He didn't have a wealthy family to buy him out of trouble.

“No. I don’t know him," said Sherlock.

The high of the first hit was starting to fade, depression threatening to take over. Sherlock rolled up onto one elbow and reached for the paraphernalia Wiggins had used earlier. Preparing the next hit was half the fun; he’d always been fascinated by the chemical processes involved in preparing the drugs he took, and washing up cocaine into crack hit several pleasure points at once. Dose just the perfect combination of sodium bicarbonate, water and powdered cocaine; obtain the right temperature in a spoon over a tealight or lighter; then pull up the cocaine alkaloid off the residual water quickly to set it in the most convenient shape. Sticking it in a pipe and smoking it was almost a secondary concern. Though, yeah, he liked that bit too.

“Right. So, what you doing here, then?” asked Wiggins.

Sherlock sprinkled the sodium bicarbonate into the water he’d scooped up with the spoon and gave the man a dark look.

“I mean, you know. I thought your type liked snorting it up with rolled up fifties in your posh digs, innit?”

“I think you have me confused with a City banker.” 

Sherlock picked up the small sachet of cocaine, but put it down again when his phone rang. He stared at John’s name on the screen for a few seconds. Was he high enough to put up with baby talk?

Wiggins looked at the name on the phone. “Oh, hey, John Watson. He’s your ex, right? The guy you used to live with before you faked your death. Got married recently, didn’t he? They talked about it in the papers.” 

Sherlock rejected the call; John would probably follow up with an email anyway. It wasn’t as if Sherlock usually answered phone calls. He resumed his previous process, carefully tapping a small amount of powdered cocaine into the spoon.

“You’re really good at that,” said the guy with admiration. “Boss says I’m the best but I’m no patch on you, mate.”

“Yes, studied chemistry.”

“So what happened, anyway? Your ex gets married so you fall off the wagon?” Wiggins shrank back when Sherlock gave him another withering look. “Okay, right, none of my business. But, you know, usually it’s a better idea to just get yourself someone new. You know, get back in the saddle, start dating again.” He pointed at the mixture Sherlock was preparing. “I mean, this isn’t the solution.”

“You sold it to me,” said Sherlock, who was now feeling disappointingly sober.

“Well, you know, I’m not going to turn down the money. A man’s got to make a living, right? Just thought you looked a bit lonely like. Everyone here has their problems. I just try to help a bit.”

Sherlock looked around at the waifs strewn over the grubby mats on the floor. “Yes, I can see that’s working out well for them.”

He stuffed the prepared crack into the pipe, wincing as the hot mixture burned his fingers through the thin glass. The high was almost completely gone now.

“You were only supposed to come in here and see if it was a suitable location to attract Magnussen’s attention. There was no need to go the full hog,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock scoffed at the idea of his brother stopping him. That hadn’t worked last time either. He raised the pipe toward his lips.

“You won’t be able to think straight if you get hooked again,” pointed out John. “That stuff will make you crazy.”

“I’m pretty crazy anyway,” said Sherlock, though he lowered the pipe and passed it to his unwanted companion. 

“And lonely, like I said,” said Wiggins, inhaling from the pipe. “I have a sixth sense about these things.”

Sherlock lay back and closed his eyes again. John and Mary were laughing on the doorstep of their soon to be family home. Sherlock was standing alone at the end of the street. The guy with the bulging eyes said he needed to find someone else.

“He could be right, you know,” said Janine, sitting on the end of Sherlock’s stained mattress in her lilac bridesmaid’s dress.

On impulse, Sherlock sat up and pulled out his phone.

“Sherlock?” repeated Janine in disbelief when he had identified himself. They had exchanged mobile numbers while they had dinner the previous Friday, but it was obvious she hadn’t expected him to call.

“Yes. Listen, I’ve been thinking about Friday and I—I’d like to see you again.”

“Really?” She sounded incredulous, and possibly just a little amused.

“Yes, really,” he assured her, peeved that his performance as a potential suitor on Friday had been so poor she didn’t believe he was interested in her. “Do you want to do something tonight? You know, maybe dinner again, or a movie?” 

“Just to be clear. You want us to go out—on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m not saying... But I didn’t get the feeling that was really your area, you know?”

“I’ve always disliked that about women,” said Mycroft. “You can observe factual details and weave them into a plausible pattern, but women make guesses based on ... nothing. So-called ‘intuition’.”

“Intuition?” repeated John. “A girl doesn’t exactly need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out a guy isn’t interested if he doesn’t let her kiss him on a date!”

“Sorry, you still there?” asked Janine on the phone. “Okay, I’d love to go out with you again. I have to work late tonight—big media shindig—so I’ll be eating with the rest of the team in the office, but I have Wednesday off, so we could go out tomorrow if you like. You said you like dancing, right? It’s ladies night on Tuesdays at a club I know if you want to go dancing?”

Sherlock smiled. “That sounds great!”

“You’re lucky women have an amazing capability for self-delusion,” said Mycroft.

“Almost as good as men’s,” said Mary glibly.

Sherlock arranged a time and meeting place with Janine, and ended the call feeling a bit more confident about his handling of this case. He took a hit from the pipe his companion was holding out to him and smiled. He let his mind drift again, focused on nothing in particular.

Wiggins grinned at him happily from the grimy mat on the floor.

“Sherlock Holmes getting high in my gaff, who’d have thought it? Just shows, we’re just the same, aren’t we, Shezza, me old mucker.”

Sherlock stared up at the cracked ceiling and wondered if that was true.


	6. Chapter 6

The music was deafening. The man dancing next to him had a serious body odour problem. Someone had bumped into him and spilled beer down his back. He’d also had more to drink than he’d had since the stag night the week before the wedding, which probably meant he’d be sick in the morning and unable to work for several hours.

But Sherlock was having the best time he’d had in months.

He had always enjoyed dancing. He enjoyed anything that exercised his muscles, like martial arts or fighting ninja assassins, but dancing was the least dangerous. It was also the talent he’d had the least opportunity to use in his line of work. In fact, he hadn’t danced like this—freestyle, moving to the beat with the crowd—since he was a young man at university. He remembered how surprised Victor had been when Sherlock suddenly left him to join the girls on the dance floor the one time they went to a club.

All things told, though, Sherlock preferred more formal dancing; the kind of dance that had rules, like the waltz. He remembered dancing with Janine at the wedding and wondered if she would enjoy going ballroom dancing. Maybe they could even invite John and Mary.

_“You what?”_

_John was standing in the entrance to the kitchen at 221B, a cup of tea in his hand. It was on a rare occasion when Mary had been otherwise occupied and it was just the two of them, entrusted with picking their own outfits from among the very limited choice in the Moss Bros catalogue. The task had taken all of two minutes—Sherlock had picked suits from a more suitable, and more expensive, tailor's shop and merely had to browbeat John into accepting the choice—so they had time to do something else as well._

_“Dancing, John,” said Sherlock patiently, removing his jacket. “Traditionally, the bride and groom have the first dance at the evening reception. It is usual to have some kind of formal dance. I believe a waltz would be suitable.”_

_“You— You said something about you teaching me, though?” said John cautiously._

_Sherlock nodded and opened his arms. “Yes. I am an excellent ballroom dancer. If we start your lessons now, I believe you should be adequate by the time of the wedding.”_

_“You want me … to dance with you?” John stared at him and cleared his throat. “Sherlock. It may have escaped your notice in the, what, thirty-seven years you’ve lived in England, but English blokes don’t dance. We’re not made for dancing. English girls dance. English blokes stand by the walls with their beers while the girls dance around their handbags. It’s a tradition, like fish and chips or, um, not speaking to strangers.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous. Come here!”_

_John stared at him a bit more, then sighed and put down his cup of tea. “I’m only doing this because Mary will want to dance at the wedding.”_

_“Then make sure she will be impressed with your unexpected terpsichorean skills. Now, you have to lead. Hold my right hand in your left—like that—and your other hand on my waist.”_

_Once they were in position, Sherlock froze. He hadn’t thought through just how odd this would be, to have John in his arms, the warmth of his large hand radiating through the thin material of Sherlock’s shirt._

_“Um,” started Sherlock, trying to remember what he had intended to say._

_“Music?” suggested John, looking up at him with his large blue eyes._

_“Oh, that. I knew something was missing.” Sherlock leaned over to turn on the stereo. “Right. Concentrate on the beat. One, two, three. Now, on one, move your left foot forward and I’ll move my right foot back. On the second beat, step forward and to your right. Now move your feet together. Now backwards. Back to the left. Feet together. Now a quarter turn to the left and start again. Left foot forward. Ow, the other left. Yes, that one. Step to the right, now both feet together. Don’t look at your feet. You’re dancing with your bride, you don’t look at your feet. Good, and back to the left, and turn. One, two, three…”_

_Sherlock continued to provide a commentary, his eyes on John’s feet to make sure he wasn’t about to be trodden on again. When they appeared to be doing better, Sherlock risked a look at John and was met with a look of amusement on his friend’s broad face._

_“Sherlock. You’re leading again.”_

_“Sorry.” Sherlock lost the rhythm and tried to match his step to John. Their hips made sideway contact and Sherlock felt inexplicably dizzy. “You need to concentrate, John! Imagine I’m Mary.”_

_“Knowing my luck, she would probably lead too,” said John with a laugh. “Also, she isn’t ten feet tall. You don’t look a bit like her.”_

_“Yes, I’d noticed,” said Sherlock a little more sharply than he had meant to._

_They’d both lost the rhythm. John stopped moving, his open, honest face raised to Sherlock’s. “It won’t change anything, you know. Once we’re finished with all this wedding stuff, we’ll go back to normal. I’ll come over every day and we’ll do what we used to do before we were planning a wedding.”_

_Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. But before he could think of anything to say, Mrs Hudson walked in with a plate of biscuits and John was suddenly on the other side of the living room, picking up his cup of tea._

On second thoughts, maybe going dancing with John and Mary would be a mistake. Sherlock’s inner Mycroft was right; he should leave them alone.

He opened his eyes; Janine was dancing in front of him. When she caught his eye, she grinned happily and twirled in the narrow gap between the other dancers. Taking inspiration from other couples around them, Sherlock placed his hands on her waist and matched the movement of his hips to hers. Janine had no formal training, but she was a quick learner and an enthusiastic dancer; it wasn’t long before they had adopted the same rhythm to the beat of the current song. The simple sensuality of dancing with a partner pleased Sherlock.

When the evening drew to a close and the music became more sensual and quiet, Sherlock took Janine’s right hand in his left and they started a slow dance. Observing the couples around them, Sherlock pondered whether to kiss Janine. He was pleasantly relaxed and after all, the purpose of his relationship with Janine was to seduce her so she would reveal more about Magnussen. A kiss under these circumstances would further the illusion of his sexual interest. However, watching a particularly enthusiastic couple slobbering into each other’s mouths put him off the idea.

They left the club when it closed in the middle of the night. Janine tucked her arm into Sherlock’s—a habit that Sherlock found both mildly irritating and … was endearing the right word?—and they walked through Soho Square in the mild June air. Sherlock wondered if John and Mary ever went for a walk like this.

“That was great,” said Janine with a happy sigh. “You're quite the mover. We'll have to do that again.”

“I prefer ballroom dancing,” stated Sherlock.

Janine looked amused. “Really? I know! You could go on Strictly. I bet you'd win, too.”

“'Strictly'?” repeated Sherlock.

“You know, Strictly Come Dancing, where celebrities compete in ballroom dancing.” She laughed at his blank expression. “If I ever become famous, that'll be the first show I'll go on. You'll have to watch it on YouTube to see what I mean. You're a celebrity, I bet they'd love to have you on.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to picture himself participating in a dance competition against "celebrities" like reality show contestants and soap opera stars. “Hmm. I think not.”

Janine giggled and leaned against him. It felt nice so he didn't tell her to stop, even though he didn't consider himself the kind of man who enjoyed being giggled on. He reminded himself again that he had to keep her keen as she was still his best source of information on Magnussen.

“So, is this for a case?” she asked conversationally after a while. When Sherlock shot her an uncomprehending look, she added, “You and me on a date. I mean, do you need a beard or something?”

Sherlock blinked. “Do I need a what now?”

“A beard. You know, a woman you go out with to prove you’re not gay." Janine gave him a confused look. "I thought maybe we were doing this because you needed a girlfriend for a case.”

“Why would I want to prove I’m not gay? There's nothing wrong with being gay.”

_“I should have known you were a bloody bender,” sputtered Victor. They were in Victor's bedroom, where they had just watched the video Mr Trevor had left his son. “All that ballroom dancing and stuff!”_

_Sherlock stared at him, startled by the change of topic. “Hmm, you shouldn't base any speculation on my sexuality merely on my attendance at dance classes. In fact, most of the boys in the class were actually there because it was an opportunity to meet the girls. I merely found it—”_

_“I should have known it," interrupted Victor, apparently addressing the wardrobe opposite him rather than Sherlock who was sitting beside him on the bed. "The others at uni, Seb and all that, they were right. You _are_ a freak!”_

_It wasn't the first time Sherlock was called a freak—nor of course the last—though Victor's reason for doing so was certainly a novelty._

_“I never realised you were such a bigot,” said Sherlock, puzzled by his friend's reaction and wanting to dismiss the topic. “Anyway, that's beside the point. Your father's confession points the finger squarely at this man Hudson. He's the one responsible for Mr Trevor's death, exactly as you said earlier. We should track him down and bring him to justice.”_

_“Dad committed suicide, Sherlock!” exclaimed Victor angrily. “He had a weak heart and he took pills that killed him. Forget about bloody Hudson. I'm just glad the creep is out of the house!”_

_Sherlock stared at Victor, still mystified by his reaction to all this. He was shocked by Mr Trevor's death, and he didn't understand why Victor didn't want to _do_ something. He didn't understand how people could die—people like Mr Trevor and Carl Powers years ago, people who didn't deserve to die—and the people left behind could just accept it as a twist of fate and not want to do something to punish the person responsible._

_“He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it,” said Sherlock stubbornly. “If you let me look in your dad's room, I might—”_

_“No. I think you should leave,” said Victor, still struggling to control his emotions. "I don't need your sort in the house."_

_Sherlock assumed his friend's anger was displaced grief, but it still stung more than he thought it should. “Well, I can see why your father preferred to commit suicide rather than confide in you,” he snapped._

_Victor just swallowed and stared at him a moment before turning away. “I'll call a cab.”_

“Of course there's nothing wrong with being gay,” said Janine kindly. She squeezed Sherlock in a half hug. “So this is for a case? Do I need to do anything?”

“You could tell her it's for a case,” said Mycroft, “and just omit the bit about Magnussen. It would save a lot of trouble.”

“On the other hand, she's a romantic. She's far more likely to trust you if she thinks it's real,” said Molly.

“This is stupid," said John. "You know you're only doing this because—“

“This isn't for a case,” said Sherlock, interrupting his own internal monologue. He lowered the timbre of his voice and gave her a broad, natural smile, one he'd practiced in the mirror for such occasions. “The truth is, I was a little jealous when you were dancing with the geek at the wedding. I enjoyed your company that day and I wanted to dance with you.”

“Ironically, that is true,” said Mycroft. “I never thought you’d yearn for something so mundane.”

“Oh.” Janine looked uncertain. Not at all like a woman who finds out that the man she's attracted to wants to start a romantic relationship with her. "So you actually _do_ want to go out with me."

“I told you this wouldn't work,” said John in a sing-song voice.

“John is right. I'm not very good at this,” blurted out Sherlock, taking a step back. Vulnerability always seemed to work with women. "I thought you liked me, but it's fine if you're not interested. I understand. You're an attractive young woman. You can obviously find someone better looking and less ... awkward."

“No! Oh no, it's okay. I am interested! God, yes. I mean, I was dying to meet Mary's famous friend and I think you're gorgeous.” 

Janine paused a moment and looked away, as if considering something. Sherlock hoped she was reconsidering whatever she had guessed about him with her mysterious feminine intuition at the wedding.

_Sherlock had just demonstrated his pirouetting technique; not something he was prone to show off to people he had just met—or anyone, come to think of it—but Janine was an enthusiastic audience and Sherlock did like to impress people._

_Janine gazed up at him and sighed. "I wish you weren't ... whatever you are."_

_"I know," said Sherlock, both because he knew she was attracted to him and to confirm that the feeling wasn't mutual._

"Which just goes to show that you should always keep your cards close to your chest when it comes to emotions," said Mycroft. "Better make up for that false start, Casanova."

"I think you're gorgeous too," said Sherlock.

That seemed a little lame, but Janine gave him a bright smile and slid her arm into his again. “Ah, thanks. So is that why you left the wedding so early?”

“No,” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, more comfortable now he had a character to play: the role of a man who was attracted to Janine. “I wanted to dance with you again. And now I have,” he added, waving in the direction of the nightclub they had just left. “I’m glad I bumped into you last week. Tonight has been wonderful.”

“Aw, you sweetheart.” Janine simpered at him. “Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes would be such a romantic?”

“Amazing what tips you can pick up on a website,” he commented with a cheeky grin, and Janine laughed.

“Now would be a good time to kiss her,” suggested Molly.

Her face was turned towards his, and Sherlock calculated that if he did this right now, and provided she didn’t move too much, he would be able to kiss her. He cupped her cheek to keep her face in the right position, then lowered his head and pressed his lips lightly against hers. Her lipstick tasted sour and the scent of her shampoo clashed with her perfume. He straightened up and smiled at her. She looked pleased, so he assumed that had gone well.

“Hmm, that’s nice,” said Janine. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up to kiss him again. Despite the taste of her lipstick, Sherlock found the unfamiliar sensation on his lips quite pleasant and closed his eyes.

“You might be better off stopping here,” said Mycroft. “I doubt you could muster the enthusiasm to actually have sex with her.”

Still letting Janine kiss his lips, Sherlock switched on his phone in his pocket and gestured a symbol he had programmed into it. His phone’s text alert sound went off.

“Ah, sorry, I need to check that,” he said, pulling out the phone and pretending to read the notifications. “It’s one of my contacts on the case. I’ll have to go.” He pulled away, but kept hold of her hand. “Let me get you home. We can meet up again another day, if you like?”

"Grand, yes. How about Thursday? I have the day off tomorrow, but I'm going shopping with the girls. You remember Leanne and Lucy, the other bridesmaids?"

No, he didn't remember Leanne and Lucy the other bridesmaids, except as blurry feminine forms stuffed into the attractive lilac dresses he had chosen for them. "Of course. Thursday is fine."

"Okay, it's a date." Janine shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm after dating Sherlock Holmes!"

"Neither can I," said Mycroft.


	7. Chapter 7

“So _that’s_ what the elephant in the room was all about,” laughed Janine. “Yes, maybe you should have told us about that one at the wedding, instead of the attempted murder.”

They were in a restaurant again. Sherlock could tell this dating business was going to get tedious very quickly. He was already bored of having to think of places to meet Janine. And of having to make small talk with her. He wondered if the evening would involve any more kissing.

At least he had chosen the restaurant himself this time so the food was better. The manager—another old criminal acquaintance who owed him several favours—looked surprised to see Sherlock with a lady, but recovered sufficiently to ensure they had a good table by the window, and various other pleasantries like a lit candle and some flowers. The trappings of romance, apparently.

“So, tell me about the case you’re working on now,” said Janine, leaning forward and unwittingly giving Sherlock a good view of the deep cleavage exposed by her midnight blue dress. “Anything interesting?”

Sherlock shrugged and took his eyes off her chest. “Nothing important. A five or six at most. It isn’t even a mystery. I’m sure I’ll have it wrapped up in no time. But I can’t really talk about it.”

“I suppose a lot of what you do must be quite boring,” said Janine, in that disinterested tone that indicated a change of topic was coming up but she was too polite to do it without a transition. “Mary says you can guess everything about a person just by looking at them. Is that true?”

“Well, you’re not _always_ right,” said Mary.

“I’m usually right,” said Sherlock.

Janine grinned and leaned back. “Okay, do me.”

Sherlock looked Janine over. “You moved to London about six years ago, but you go back to Ireland on a regular basis, and recently visited your family in Pakistan, probably for a wedding. You hate your job but you’re well paid and saving up to buy a house, maybe in Southern England, but away from London, which is a practical location rather than a lifestyle choice. You’ve had seven... no, eight sexual relationships. Some very short-lived, one-night stands, even, but most of them lasting at least a few months. One-night stands notwithstanding, you’re a romantic looking for Mr Right and you are a serial monogamist when you are not on the rebound from a breakup. Your ultimate ambition is to settle down in your own place and live a quiet life with your husband and children. Unfortunately, you’ve suffered a setback with the end of your most recent relationship, maybe as little as two or three months ago. Nothing quite as depressing as being a bridesmaid while someone older and less deserving walks up the—”

Sherlock was interrupted by John’s voice in his mind. “Nice one. Imply she’s an old maid.”

“Right.” Janine wasn’t smiling anymore. “You got all that just from looking at me?”

“Now would be a good time to be a goldfish, brother mine. You know how.”

“Um, no. Nobody is that clever,” said Sherlock bashfully. “I would normally say I deduced it from small details. Your Irish accent being very pronounced after all these years. The Claddagh ring on your right hand. The fact you slept with the geek the night of your best friend’s wedding. The length of your hem and the depth of your cleavage,” he looked down at her plunging neckline again. “The amount of makeup you wear. Small details that might conceivably hint at the facts I am revealing.” He switched on a winsome smile and leaned towards her, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “But actually, the truth is less exciting. I pay attention when Mary talks about her friends. The rest is just window dressing. Don’t tell anyone.”

He winked at her. People liked it when he did that. Janine relaxed visibly, her face brightening up with a delighted smile. 

“Oh, right! Your secret is safe with me.”

“Well played,” said Mycroft. “People love secrets.”

“I suppose Mary must have told you all about me,” said Janine.

“Maybe I did,” said Mary. “Only you don’t remember because you deleted it all.”

Janine started to tell him some stories about her arrival in London and Sherlock tuned her out. He poured himself another glass of white wine and ate his meal, mentally reviewing some of his plans for the next few days. The sound of Janine’s voice in the background was pleasant, though, and his eyes drifted back to the split in the neckline of her dress. Janine’s breasts were pushed together by her underwear and he wondered if his hand would fit in between them.

Astonished by that thought, Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie. Janine’s voice tuned back in clearly. He looked up at her face again. She looked upset, though he soon deduced it was nothing to do with his lack of attention.

“…I know Leanne is right, and days like this, I think I probably should just resign,” she was saying.

“Bad day at the office?” asked Sherlock, because that felt like the kind of sensitive thing a caring boyfriend would say.

Janine shrugged noncommittally. “My boss makes me work every hour he can. He makes me feel bad about taking any time off. Says it’s a ‘commitment deficit’. One day, he even said that my Asian dad would probably be ashamed that I’m being ‘so Irish’. I was supposed to have yesterday off, that’s why I suggested the club on Tuesday night. I thought I’d get a lie-in, but of course, he had to get me out of bed to help him prepare for a conference this weekend. I swear he must follow me around and do it on purpose when I’ve been out the night before.” Janine sighed and gave Sherlock a wan smile. “I don’t suppose you need a PA?”

“No, I can answer my own emails,” said Sherlock sharply. Everyone seemed to think he would be incapable of running his detective business without John.

“That’s a shame,” said Janine with a sigh. “I’d rather work for you than for Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“You’re too pretty, anyway,” said Sherlock more gently. Janine’s hand was lying on the table so he took it in his own; that felt like a romantic thing to do. “You’d distract the clients. That was never a problem with John.”

“No,” agreed John. “Well, not with the clients anyway.”

Janine looked delighted by Sherlock’s compliment, so he decided to press his advantage and keep her talking about the topic that interested him the most. “I take it Magnussen isn’t a very nice boss, then?”

“Ah, he’s a fecking arse. Sorry,” she said unapologetically. “He’s just, ugh. He likes to ‘own’ people. You know, make them feel small and humiliate them to make himself look big. He made our receptionist cry the other day. It was his own fault: he put his keycard in with his phone, and you’d think a man who has all the latest tech including those glasses you can read stuff on would know better. Anyway, it scrambled the card and when he tried to get into his lift—the gobshite has his own private lift, can you believe it?—the alarm went off. The receptionist was away from her desk so she didn’t check the video feed and let him in, so Security came rushing around and he wasn’t amused. Jesus, the things he said to her in front of us, and all really calm and friendly, as if he was being nice. He’s such a creep. Then there was this other time—” 

Sherlock was too busy making a mental note about the operation of Magnussen’s private lift to pay much attention as Janine gave him another example of his mistreatment of the staff. Sherlock had obtained the schematics of both Magnussen’s tower in the City and his private house, and had already concluded that the tower, frequented at all hours of the day and night, would be easier to break into “in plain sight”. The keycard information sounded useful. Sherlock stored it in his Mind Palace with Janine’s cleavage and tuned back into the conversation.

“—I can’t say who, but he met this guy in a restaurant, a famous politician, in one of the private dining rooms. I wasn’t in with them, my job was just to make sure they got the right food and a steady supply of drink. You never saw such a face as that guy pulled when he came out. He was white as a sheet. I don’t know what Magnussen said to him, but he always finds a weak spot. Something that really hurts.” She shook her head. “I guess he can do what he likes. He always brags that he can print anything about anyone, and that things like the Leveson Inquiry that’s investigating the press won’t make any difference. If there’s any shred of truth, and even if there isn’t, once he’s published it, it’ll be online forever and that person’s reputation is destroyed. Just like what happened to you. There are plenty of people out there who still believe you’re a fraud.”

“I don’t care what people think,” said Sherlock with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, most people do. Especially if it’s something that will make people come after them, like if they’re branded a paedophile or something.” She took a drink from her wine glass, apparently dismissing Magnussen and their current conversation. “So, to come back to what we were saying earlier, you know I’ve had a couple of boyfriends. What about you?”

“This should be entertaining,” said John. “Is that man a pickpocket?”

Sherlock paid closer attention to a man he’d just noticed in the crowd outside the window. It was difficult to tell whether he was merely hanging about, waiting for someone, or if he was deliberately sidling up to people to root around in their pockets and handbags.

“No, no boyfriends,” said Sherlock, his attention focussed on the man outside.

“I actually meant girlfriends, but, um, okay, so no boyfriends. Any girlfriends?”

“We all know the answer to that one,” said Mycroft sardonically.

“She wants to know your sexual history,” pointed out John. “Having no experience at your age will make you a less attractive partner. She’s not the kind of girl who will be turned on by a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” said Sherlock. The man got into a car but didn’t drive off.

“Debatable,” said John. “You’ll have to make something up.”

“Ooh. Can I play in this fantasy sex life of yours?” said a familiar feminine voice.

Sherlock pictured the usual starting point in his Mind Palace: a corridor full of doors, adopted from the boarding school he had attended as a child. He didn’t even need to open a door before he spotted her in the middle of the corridor, entirely naked and raising an arched eyebrow, her red lips curled into a sardonic smile.

“There was Irene Adler,” said Sherlock, still immersed in his vision.

“Oh yes, Irene Adler!” exclaimed Janine enthusiastically. “She was mentioned in John’s blog. He did say you had a thing about her.” She paused a split second. “Wasn’t she also the one who had that affair with Andrew Carrington and Marjorie Dunstable at the same time when they were getting divorced? That was years ago, but I remember it was big news at the time!”

“Who the hell are Andrew Carrington and Marjorie Dunstable?” asked John, even though Sherlock was pretty sure he would have known them in reality.

“She was a dominatrix, wasn’t she?” Janine added with amusement. “I suppose that explains the handcuffs.”

Sherlock brought himself back to reality and looked over at Janine’s handsome features. “You think I carry handcuffs around with me in case someone wants to tie me up?” Sherlock grinned and shook his head. Only lies needed details, and he decided not to get too elaborate. “Yes, she was a dominatrix.”

Sherlock remembered Irene, still in her black hijab at the hotel room in Karachi. She was reclining on the bed, her calculating pale eyes on his.

_“We have a couple of hours before my contact comes to get me. We could have some fun,” she suggested casually._

_“You don’t have sex with men,” he retorted when his brain parsed what she seemed to be suggesting. “You’re a dominatrix. You give your clients what they need, and if they enjoy it, that’s their problem. Why would you want to have sex with me?”_

_“You’re right. I don’t have sex with my clients. But I could give you what you need.” She stood up and traced his cheekbone with a sharp fingernail. “If you enjoy it, that’s your problem.”_

_Sherlock seized her wrist and pulled it away. “I’m not interested in sex.”_

_“I’m not offering sex,” she purred. “I’m offering surrender.”_

“You should have taken me up on my offer,” said the Irene from his Mind Palace.

He imagined her in a tight white dress sitting opposite him, beside Janine. Placing both women side by side in his mind, Sherlock was struck by how different they were. Irene was all angles, snow white skin and blood red lips, flat chest, cold blue eyes and sharp nails. By contrast, Janine was all soft curves and warm colours, from her guileless brown eyes to her creamy coloured skin.

“I found her intriguing,” said Sherlock, tilting his head to observe his mental image of Irene. “But it would never have worked out. In many ways, we were too alike.” Irene disappeared. “The rest weren’t very remarkable.” He dismissed the cohort of non-existent girlfriends with a wave of his hand. 

“What about your first?”

“My first?”

“Yes. Someone must have been your first, right? You know, first kiss, first experience. I mean, I assume it wasn’t Irene Adler a couple of years ago. So who was she, where did you meet, all that?” asked Janine, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “I mean, if you want to tell me, obviously.”

Sherlock remembered the surprisingly soft lips against his, the touch of hands on his body, the hard wood panelling at his back. He felt his head spin a little. Probably the wine he had drunk with the meal. Or the remnants of this afternoon’s high. He pushed back the memory, only for another image of that summer so long ago to take its place.

_The sun was shining on the small lake at the back of the mansion in Donnithorpe. Victor had already gone ahead, anxious to get back to the house and watch some sporting event whose details Sherlock immediately deleted, and leaving Sherlock and Mr Trevor to pull up the boat._

_“You know, you’re not quite how I pictured you when Victor said you were a chemistry student,” said Mr Trevor as they dragged the boat up the muddy bank. “I got the glasses right, but I didn’t think you’d be in such good shape. Do you work out?”_

_“No, not really. I, well, I do dancing. And martial arts,” added Sherlock, because people aways laughed when he said he went to dancing classes._

_“Well, it’s doing you good, whatever you’re doing.” Mr Trevor squeezed one of Sherlock’s biceps teasingly. “Rock solid. I could tell you work out. And brainy, too, Victor tells me. He says you’d make a great detective.”_

_Sherlock was pleased by Mr Trevor’s attention. “Yes. For instance, I can tell you used to have a tattoo on your left arm. It’s been removed, but from the outline, I think it was the initials J.A. Presumably someone you used to know and who you’re keen to forget.”_

_“How the bloody hell—” started Trevor, pulling his shirt sleeve down over the scarred patch on his upper arm._

_He stood back, taking deep breaths; Sherlock had already noticed that he showed all the signs of heart disease, at least as described in the medical textbook he had read. After a moment, Trevor seemed to pull himself together and he clapped Sherlock on the back, his hand lingering to squeeze his shoulder._

_“Yes, well, you know how it goes when you’re in love,” he said with a forced laugh. “Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst. But take my advice and never get a tattoo, however much in love you might be.”_

_“I don’t intend to get a tattoo. Or fall in love for that matter,” said Sherlock confidently, though he was surprised when that made Mr Trevor laugh. “I can tell some other things about you, you know. You’ve been to Japan and to New—”_

_“Well, bugger me. Won’t you look at that,” said an unfamiliar voice behind them. “Got yourself another twink, eh, Mr Magistrate?”_

_A middle aged man had suddenly appeared on the path behind them. Even at the tender age of twenty, Sherlock could read details of the man’s life on his grizzled features. Former boxer, heavy smoker, a Londoner by his accent, probably from the East End, fallen on hard times and intent on some devious purpose. Surprisingly, married to a woman who took good care of him, darning his shirt and putting patches on his worn jacket._

_Victor had followed the man down to the lake and was telling him to leave, but Mr Trevor shut him up with a wave of his hand, his brown, weather-beaten features set in an unfamiliar expression which Sherlock recognised as fear._

_“Poor Gloria,” said their visitor, lighting a cigarette and giving Mr Trevor a shrewd smile. “Forgotten already.”_

“Gloria Scott,” said Sherlock softly.

“Gloria Scott?” exclaimed John. “You never told _me_ about Gloria Scott, but you’re going to tell Janine?”

“Was she your girlfriend?” asked Janine curiously.

For one insane moment, Sherlock was tempted to tell her the truth. He’d never told anyone. 

“You promised,” said Victor. Sherlock pictured him as he had been back then; a young, handsome Public school boy, and Sherlock’s only friend and admirer.

“Victor Trevor is a rising star in the Conservative Party,” pointed out Mycroft. “The promise of secrecy probably still holds. In any case, the truth could ruin the whole Magnussen case. Janine will know what you’re up to if you tell her about Hudson. Turn what you’ve said into what she expects to hear.”

Victor smiled and vanished. Sherlock had barely given him a thought in recent years, but the memory of their ruined friendship still pulled at his heart.

“That’s what you get for becoming too involved,” Mycroft reminded him.

“We met when I was at university,” explained Sherlock. “It didn’t end well.”

“She left you?”

“Committed suicide.”

“God, that’s awful!” He could tell that Janine was genuinely affected by the information, even though she knew nothing about what had happened. “How old was she?”

“I don’t know, actually. Late fifties, early sixties, I suppose.”

Janine’s brown eyes drifted away from his gaze for a moment while she processed that information. “Oh, so she was…”

“My best friend’s…mother, yes.” Sherlock remembered a different occasion and the distress in Mr Trevor’s eyes when he stepped back, leaving Sherlock leaning against the wall, breathless and confused. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Wow. No wonder you’re—” She paused when Sherlock involuntarily gave her a sharp look. “I mean that must have been pretty traumatic.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It wasn’t love, and the suicide was nothing to do with me.”

“But you could have prevented it if you’d cracked the case sooner,” said Mycroft.

“Anyway, what about you?” said Sherlock, keen to change the subject. “Tell me about some of those boyfriends.”

People always loved to talk about themselves, and Janine was no exception. Sherlock slipped his hand into hers again as she talked. He didn’t know why; he just felt like it. The feeling of her skin against his was comforting, like being hugged by his mother or Mrs Hudson.

He had held John’s hand once, when they were running away from the police, handcuffed together like criminals in an old movie. And then there was the wedding.

_“Did I do it wrong?” asked Sherlock, bewildered at the apparent outpouring of grief among the wedding guests._

_“No, you didn’t. Come here,” said John, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, John was embracing him._

It was a manly embrace, Sherlock remembered. Not quite the kind of cushioning hug his mother had favoured before he pointed out that he was too old for cuddles from his Mummy, but equally not the standoffish pat on the back that his father would administer when Sherlock had done something to make him proud. On the other hand, it was the same kind of hug Lestrade had given him when he came back...

“Except it was a hug from me,” pointed out John.

“You should be paying attention to Janine,” said Mycroft.

“So, um, do you have to work tonight?” asked Janine, picking up her handbag. Sherlock looked down at the cleared table and wondered where all the food had gone. “I have work tomorrow, but we could, I don’t know, go somewhere else?”

Her voice trailed off as she stood up and headed for the door. Sherlock followed suit, though he looked around, puzzled as to why they were apparently leaving so soon. His friend the manager bowed them out and thanked them.

“Did we get that meal for free?” asked Sherlock. “He didn’t bring us the bill.”

“Yes, he did.” Janine tucked her arm in his and looked up at him with amusement. “You didn’t even notice, did you? We’d finished so I asked for the bill and I paid it.”

“You’re not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to pay for things,” said Sherlock.

“Well, I think we can take turns.” Janine leaned up to kiss his cheek. “It’s all right. I still think you’re gorgeous.”

He was supposed to compliment her. “You, um, you’re pretty nice too.”

“Ah, you sweet-talker, you.” Janine kissed his lips and it really wasn’t too unpleasant. She had changed her lipstick. “So, your place or mine? Only mine isn’t a great idea because my flatmate’s boyfriend is in town and they’re probably after watching something. He got her this big-arse projector in the living room just so they can watch movies from his laptop. So, you going to show me the famous 221B Baker Street?”

Glancing across the road, Sherlock noticed that the man he had mistaken for a pickpocket earlier was still sitting in his car. He was too obvious to be one of Mycroft’s minions; at least, Sherlock hoped his brother wasn’t hiring such sloppy staff. There was a large equipment bag on the car’s back seat. A paparazzo, then. Or at least a freelance journalist who had spotted a celebrity and was hoping for a story. 

“Actually, you should go home.” Sherlock moved away from Janine and hailed a cab.

“Home? But—“

“Right now would be good.” Sherlock opened the cab door and ushered Janine in. “Goodbye. I’ll call you.”

Before she could respond, he gave her address to the cabbie and turned his back on it as it drove away. The journalist could be working for Murdoch rather than Magnussen, but it was worth leading him to an interesting story anyway. Sherlock hailed a cab and once he was sure the journalist had started his engine, directed the cabbie to the vicinity of the derelict house near the Watsons’ home.


	8. Chapter 8

“Why didn’t you tell me about the Gloria Scott affair anyway?” asked John conversationally.

Sherlock paused in his inspection of the Appledore blueprints at his desk and pondered whether now was a good time to talk to his imaginary companion.

Well, why not? Nothing useful had come of the journalist following him the previous week; just a couple of lazy lines about the “boffin sleuth” having dinner with a “mystery lady” before going to visit his “former partner” John Watson. The journalist hadn’t even bothered to follow Sherlock on foot to see where he actually went, so Sherlock had spent the night at the derelict house, exchanging drug-preparation tips with Wiggins.

But he was home now and the high of his latest “takeaway” from the drug den had faded. Besides, he hadn’t inspected his memories of that first case for years.

He put his cigarette down on the ashtray he had stolen from Buckingham Palace and went over to the pile of papers in the corner of the room. After some rooting around in a box of things from his university time, he pulled out a faded printed email.

`The supply of game for London is going steadily up. Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen pheasant’s life.`

“It’s a skip code,” said Mary, suddenly standing beside John’s chair. She was wearing a red coat and holding her phone. Sherlock had a fleeting memory of standing alone in the dark with a bag of chips a couple of days after his return. 

“‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life,’” continued Mary. “I can recognise a skip code on sight, you know.”

Sherlock was intrigued, because random insights like this one were often the key to an otherwise obscure case.

“And she’s expecting my baby,” said his imaginary John happily, reaching up to hold Mary’s hand. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

Mary disappeared and Sherlock sat down in his usual chair opposite John. He took a drag from his cigarette and focused on his memories. “I should have known when Hudson first turned up that he was intent on blackmailing Mr Trevor.”

“It was obvious,” commented Mycroft, though Sherlock imagined him as the fat young man he had been at the time. He liked doing that sometimes; it was oddly satisfying to think his imperious older brother had once succumbed to binge eating.

“I was young,” said Sherlock irritably. “Except possibly for that shady guy who used to sell us pot at uni, I’d never met a criminal before. Besides, I thought Mr Trevor would handle whatever the man was up to.”

“Sentiment again. I’d warned you about that even back then.”

“It was nothing to do with sentiment,” snapped Sherlock. “Mr Trevor was a boxer, a magistrate and a former soldier. It wasn’t illogical to assume he’d be able to handle a man like Hudson.”

“Mr Trevor was quite a remarkable man,” said John with a smile.

Sherlock remembered Trevor: his strong, weathered features and the bloodshot eyes of a man who had spent his youth in the Caribbean sunshine. He'd been fascinated by him during his stay in Donnithorpe, by the rich history he could read in his person and his possessions: his modest origins, his military past, his extraordinary transition to a career in finance, and his respectable retirement as a Justice of the Peace in the English countryside. A man of little education whose only son had gone to one of the most expensive schools in the country and was now on track for a distinction at Cambridge.

“He was my best friend’s father, that’s all.”

"Oh, really?" said Mycroft sarcastically.

_The study was warm and cloying, the late July sunshine barely kept at bay by thick brocade curtains; inherited from the previous occupants of the expansive mansion, as Trevor’s own tastes tended to be more frugal. The man himself was sitting at his desk, though he appeared to be staring into space rather than doing any work._

_“Hudson is blackmailing you,” said Sherlock, too excited by his own discovery to think about the consequences. “That's why you've let him stay here, even though you're obviously not friends. Why? What hold does he have over you?”_

_Trevor swore and stood up. “Look, I know Victor thinks you’re a bloody genius, but you’d better stay away from things you don’t understand.”_

_“What could it be? You made your fortune in the Cayman Islands, working in a bank there before you moved here. Perhaps there were some dodgy deals involved?”_

_“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Trevor. He smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, I can handle Hudson. I told you, he’s an old acquaintance who just needs a little help to get himself back on his feet. He’ll be gone in a week or two anyway. Now, shouldn’t you be off amusing yourself with my son?”_

_Trevor walked over to open the door. The relaxation in his features convinced Sherlock that he was telling the truth. This wasn’t about the money._

_“Whatever it is, it’s something that terrifies you. Something only Hudson knows about, otherwise it wouldn’t be effective blackmail material. You’re both former boxers; his broken nose and the distinctive damage to your ears tell me as much," said Sherlock, proud of his deductions. “But he’s at least ten years younger than you and you didn’t move to London until you were transferred over by the Cayman Bank. I’m going to assume you didn’t do much boxing after you went into banking. Was he in the Caribbean with you? No, I’ve only talked to him a few times since he’s been here, but it’s obvious he’s never lived anywhere else than the British Isles. He’s a bigot whose mind has never been broadened by travel. Besides, your body language when I mentioned the Cayman Islands suggests this isn’t anything to do with your work for the bank over there. You served in the British Army in the Sixties, but it’s obvious he didn’t. So it must be something that happened while you were both in London. It seems unlikely that you met him in the circles you must currently frequent as a member of the Rotary Club and a county magistrate. Perhaps he was your bodyguard, or involved with someone you knew who mixed with that kind of person. But what hold could he have over you? I suppose he might have found out you were gay… but no, that’s hardly grounds for blackmail these days!”_

_Sherlock was surprised how quickly Trevor moved; before he had even finished his sentence, the magistrate had pinned him to the wood-panelled wall with a firm grip on his shirt._

_“What the hell are you talking about?” he hissed. “How dare you come into my house and accuse me of being a bloody bender?”_

_“But you made a pass at me,” said Sherlock, puzzled by his reaction. “When we went fishing, the day I saw your tattoo. You complimented me and touched my arm.”_

_Sherlock felt a thrill at the memory of Trevor’s hand on his biceps, and the strange fluttering he’d felt when the older man complimented him on his physique. Trevor looked at him with the wide eyes of a man whose secret was exposed, and who couldn’t decide whether to confirm or deny it._

_“I don’t mind,” said Sherlock in what he hoped was a reassuring tone._

_“Why, you—” started Trevor, before his expression changed and he stared at Sherlock intensely._

_Sherlock raised his hand to Trevor’s shoulder. “I don’t mind,” he repeated._

Sherlock blinked. “Actually, forget it,” he said. “What happened back then has nothing to do with this case.”

“Well, then, little brother, let’s by all means focus on the case!”

Sherlock returned to his Mind Palace, though it had adopted the guise of the drawing room in the Trevors’ mansion. He looked around at the ancient paintings and ornate mouldings on the walls, surprised at how well his subconscious remembered the place considering he had only spent a few weeks there over fifteen years ago.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was sitting on the Regency sofa opposite him. His image was based on photographs and video footage, since Sherlock had never met him in person. Mycroft, restored to his present slim, authoritative features, was standing behind the sofa, his hands resting on the back, on either side of Magnussen’s shoulders.

“‘What happened back then has nothing to do with this case.’ Really, Sherlock? Don’t tell me you’re that thick. Why are we still here, in this room? You want to stop Magnussen because you didn’t stop the man who blackmailed your first ... What did you tell Janine? Ah yes, your first ‘girlfriend’."

“No, I don’t,” protested Sherlock. “This is nothing to do with what happened to Mr Trevor!”

“Then why don’t you just call Magnussen and ask him to hand over the letters?” asked Mycroft. “A straightforward swap. Your grubby little drugs secret in exchange for Lord Smallwood’s grubby little letters. Maybe even throw in a promise of leniency from Lady Smallwood and her ineffective little parliamentary committee. I’m sure Magnussen would be willing to negotiate. There is no need for this charade.”

“Ah, don’t listen to him, sure he’s wrong,” said Janine. She was sitting on the sofa beside Sherlock, her legs folded up comfortably onto the seat and her arm brushing his. “Magnussen is a gobshite who likes to have power over people. He won’t hand over the letters.”

“Besides, the whole purpose of this case is to retrieve the letters without compromising the effectiveness of my ‘little parliamentary committee’,” pointed out Lady Smallwood, sitting primly on the other side of Sherlock.

Mycroft leaned over Magnussen and smiled. “People like Magnussen are my problem, little brother. Pursuing him as revenge for what happened to your friend will not help anyone.”

“I don’t need revenge,” said Sherlock. He waved everyone away except Mycroft. “I got all the revenge I needed years ago!”

_The heat was unbearable, humid and almost tangible, like the heavy mist left after a hot shower. Taking off his glasses, Sherlock wiped the sweat from his face for what felt like the twentieth time since he’d got off the bus, and yearned for the grey skies and cool air he had left behind. The single-storey house with its wide driveway and garden of wizened-looking shrubs covered in gaudy flowers was nice enough if you liked that kind of thing, but why anyone would actually choose to live in this climate mystified him._

_He rang the doorbell, expecting a Cuban or African-American maid like practically every other house he had visited in his extensive investigation. But he was surprised when a middle-aged white woman opened the door._

_“Oh hello, love, what can I do for you?”_

_He had only been in Florida for a few weeks, but her English accent filled him with a homesickness so strong that he forgot the lies he had prepared and the American accent he had been practicing._

_“I’m looking for Frank Hudson,” he blurted out. “Used to be a bouncer at Queenie’s on Old Compton Street?”_

_“Oh, are you one of the boys from the club?” The woman seemed distracted. She was clutching a handkerchief and looked as if she was about to burst into tears. “Frank used to call them terrible names, but I loved them. Live and let live, I always say. And the showgirls were such sweethearts with their lovely dresses and all that beautiful makeup.”_

_The women who had talked to Sherlock so far had all been Hudson’s mistresses; attractive young women with a drug habit who traded their bodies for Hudson’s wares and money. Some of them were even under the impression that Hudson lived with them, though Sherlock only had to look around their plush feminine interiors to ascertain that he actually lived somewhere else. However, it had been an exhausting but informative few days._

_This, on the other hand, was something different. There was a picture of the Queen’s Coronation on the wall above the totally unnecessary fireplace and a Union Jack cushion on one of the large American sofas. The sparse bookshelf included cheap boxing trophies and biographies of English footballers. There was an autographed photograph of a footballer with a very obvious combover on the top shelf, and a picture of Hudson himself holding a large fish in front of a log cabin. Sherlock forgot about the heat and how homesick he was; at last, after two years of research, he had tracked the man down to his home._

_“You’re Hudson’s wife,” stated Sherlock, amazed that such a person existed. “This is where he lives.”_

_“Yes,” said Mrs Hudson, looking up at him with her red-rimmed brown eyes. “Well, where he used to live. He’s dead. Shot in the head only last week.”_

_Given what Sherlock had already gathered of Hudson’s recent activities, that statement made him smile. “Oh, I very much doubt that, Mrs Hudson. Can I come in?”_

“Oh, Sherlock. _Really!_ ”

There was a cool breeze blowing around Sherlock’s head and he opened his eyes.

“You promised you wouldn’t smoke in the house! I’ll never be able to rent it again if you stain all the walls with nicotine.” Mrs Hudson was bustling over to open the other window in the living-room. The one behind Sherlock was already open and letting in a distinctly chilly easterly breeze.

“And you need to get out more. Have you even changed out of those pyjamas since yesterday?” She looked at him more closely. “Oh, dear, you haven’t even shaved. You look terrible! When’s the last time you had a bath?”

“Do you ever think about your husband?” interrupted Sherlock, still musing over his memory of their first meeting.

“Frank?” said Mrs Hudson, in that stupid way people did, even though she’d only ever had one husband. She seemed taken aback for a moment, but then she sat in John’s chair opposite him, much as she had done the day of the wedding. “Sometimes. You can’t have someone in your life for so long without them leaving a gap when they’re gone. But you have to pick yourself up when you lose someone. Go out there, meet other people.” She gave Sherlock a pitying look. “You can’t spend the rest of your life moping at home. I’m sure there are plenty of other nice young men out there.”

Sherlock pictured Janine sitting on the arm of his chair—an odd location, but the only available spot near him given that Mrs Hudson was sitting in John’s chair. He remembered kissing her the last time they met, just before bundling her into the taxi. 

“When was that? Two days ago? Longer?” asked Janine in her soft Irish accent—why did people call it a lilt? “You should call me, you know.”

“I know,” said Sherlock. He tried to remember what Mrs Hudson was talking about. “I should call my girlfriend. We were going to meet up this weekend.”

“Your girlfriend?” repeated Mrs Hudson, her small eyes round with amazement. “What girlfriend?” 

“Do you really want to tell Mrs Hudson about Janine?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Sherlock decisively. It would further the illusion that their relationship was real. “You know her. Janine. The Irish girl from the wedding. Mary’s chief bridesmaid.”

“Oh, yes. I remember Molly saying you seemed very friendly at the wedding, but I never imagined … I mean, I know John was always saying he wasn’t. But I really didn’t think you—” She stared at Sherlock a moment and then sighed. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s such a shame John left.” 

“I’m not the one who left,” said John bitterly.

“What is it with you boys and these girls all of a sudden?” continued Mrs Hudson in exasperation. “If you ask me—”

“It’s the natural order of things, isn’t it?” interrupted Sherlock. He stood up and turned his back on her, pretending to rearrange the papers on his desk. “Boy meets girl, girl convinces boy he wants to get married, girl has babies and that’s it, a bond that will last a lifetime. No matter how the marriage goes or the relationship ends, she’ll always be the mother of his child."

Sherlock pictured John and Mary standing arm in arm in the middle of his living-room, just as they had done at the wedding. John looked resplendent in his outfit; Sherlock was proud he had convinced him to go with the more expensive option.

“Well, they’re interfering, that’s what. Mary and this Janine woman. It isn’t right.” Mrs Hudson sighed. “I suppose now John is married, he’ll be having a family and then that’ll be the end of it. It’s just such a shame. It was so nice to see you so happy for once.”

“Happy,” scoffed Mycroft. “Happiness is the kind of thing that ordinary people worry about.”

  
_“I agree,” said Sherlock, peering over the top of his laptop from the comfort of the sofa. “It is a ridiculous way to win hearts and minds.”_

_“Yes, it is! Wait. What?” John turned to stare at him. “I didn’t say anything!”_

_“You didn’t need to,” said Sherlock mysteriously, looking down at his laptop again. They had been living together for a year now and he was pretty certain he knew what John’s reaction would be._

_There was a brief pause during which John pretended to read_ The Guardian _. Then he put the paper down on the table beside his chair and sighed._

_“OK, I’ll bite. How did you know I was thinking about Iraq?”_

_Sherlock left the laptop open to affect nonchalance, but he couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice._

_“Last week, I told you it was possible to read minds if you really put some thought to it. And you laughed and said that was impossible even for me.”_

_“Well, yes.”_

_“Actually, it’s perfectly possible to work out a person’s train of thought from the expressions on their face. You have a very expressive face; it’s all those lines, I think, and your general inability to lie. Lies and deceit take a great deal of intelligence, you know. Anyway, when you put your paper down a minute ago, I thought I would take this opportunity to prove my point. You stared into space for a few seconds, your mind no doubt as vacant as your expression. It must be so peaceful in there, without profound thoughts knocking about.”_

_John rolled his eyes and reached for his paper again, but Sherlock continued and he could tell John was listening._

_“Then you looked up at the bookshelf and I could practically see you mentally rearranging your books on the middle shelf to group all the twenty-first century conflicts together. You frowned and unconsciously flexed your left shoulder, the deepening of the lines on your forehead suggesting that you were reliving your injury and dwelling on the people you lost in Afghanistan. Two things I’m pretty sure your therapist told you not to do too often. You’re generally positive about what has been achieved in Afghanistan but you consider Iraq a catastrophic failure, to the point that you can’t help but see the funny side of invading a country to rid it of non-existent terrorists, only to leave it riddled with potential terrorists after a decade of occupation. When you looked back at the paper and smiled and shook your head, it wasn’t difficult to guess that your thoughts had drifted off onto Iraq. I can read you like a book, John. A slim volume, to be fair, but it’s good practice for more complicated cases.”_

_“That’s amazing,” said John. “OK, a little insulting, too.”_

_“Well, undiluted amazement would get very boring after a while,” said Sherlock with a grin. John caught his eye and laughed good-naturedly._   


Maybe that had been happiness. Though they had had plenty of arguments, Sherlock had never known anyone outside his immediate family who tolerated him the way John did.

“Yes, I suppose I was happy,” he admitted.

“Ah, but how do you know that John was ever really happy when he was with you?” asked Mycroft.

_“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re talking.”_

“I was joking,” said the John in Sherlock’s mind.

“It’s a moot point anyway,” said Mycroft. “He always wanted a girlfriend. You were never going to be enough for him.”

“Well, I don’t think it’ll last, you and this Janine,” said Mrs Hudson. “She’s probably only after you because you’re famous. I know the type.”

Back in Sherlock’s Mind Palace overlay of the Baker Street living room, Janine was standing behind the Watsons, wearing the lilac dress Sherlock had chosen for the bridesmaids and holding the yellow rose he had thrown at her at the evening reception. She smiled at him coquettishly. Sherlock pictured Magnussen standing beside her with the dead eyed stare discernible in so many of his online photographs and videos, and it reminded him that he had a case to work on.

“That’s all right, it doesn’t need to last,” said Sherlock. He picked up his phone and walked over to open the door. “Goodbye, Mrs Hudson.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Oh, hello, darling. Yes, of course it’s me… Would you like to come over and see the famous 221B Baker Street?”

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips in disapproval but headed for the door. “I only came up to give you these anyway,” she grumbled, handing Sherlock a couple of envelopes.

Sherlock pushed the door closed with relief and arranged a time with Janine. He caught sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace as he rang off. Unshaven, unevenly tanned, his hair greasy and unkempt. He looked very ordinary like this. An ordinary man with a girlfriend. He glanced at the letters Mrs Hudson had given him. A girlfriend and bills to pay.

He wondered if Janine would like him better like this. He certainly looked more manly than usual. Perhaps he could affect a more rugged look to enhance the illusion of heterosexual masculinity necessary to ensure Janine would want him long enough to see the case to its conclusion.

“Ah, but she wants Sherlock Holmes,” pointed out Mycroft. “You know, the one with the ’at.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to the odd flap hat that had become associated with his media persona, lying upside down on a bookshelf. He put it on the skull, stabbed the bills to the mantelpiece with his penknife, and went off to have a bath.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was still in the bath when Janine arrived. Despite her earlier disapproval, Mrs Hudson let Janine into the flat and didn’t seem to be giving her the cold shoulder; though the words were unintelligible at this distance, Sherlock could hear the sound of their voices carrying down the corridor. Sherlock shampooed his hair, then closed his eyes and ducked under the water, enjoying the momentary sensory deprivation—that feeling of blissful oblivion—as his ears filled with the muffled sound of water.

When he came up again, smoothing back his hair as he rose into a sitting position, the women were still talking, their voices an indistinct chatter in the background. They were no doubt catching up on all the post-wedding gossip. Or whatever it was that women talked about when they were alone. Men, mainly, if TV shows were to be believed.

When Mrs Hudson was gone, Sherlock heard the floorboards in the corridor creak and Janine knocked on the door.

“Sherlock, are you in the bath?”

“Yes, I’ll be out in a minute!”

Apparently satisfied with that answer, Janine walked back down the corridor. Sherlock scrubbed himself thoroughly, still pleasantly buzzy from his earlier high, and enjoying the simple sensuality of spreading soap over every part of his skin. He chose to ignore his body whenever he could, resentful of its constant clamouring for nourishment, elimination and sleep, and its rarer demands for sensual gratification, but he generally liked to keep it clean and in good working order. 

“Speaking of sensual gratification,” said John, suddenly seated on the closed toilet, “you do know Janine will be expecting to have sex tonight, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. He cleaned his groin and legs. “Men are the ones who think about sex every few minutes. Women don’t do that. I read it on a website for a case once. Women are more interested in a man’s emotional investment in the relationship than in his sexual prowess. As long as I demonstrate suitable emotional investment, she will prefer it if I remain a perfect gentleman.”

“She’ll still expect you to make advances,” John pointed out. “I had sex with every woman I went out with while I lived with you. Sometimes on the first date, always by the third date. It’s what normal people do.”

_”Good morning, Sherlock,” said Sarah cheerfully. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, mostly dressed—Diesel jeans and a cheap H &M t-shirt—but barefoot._

_Sherlock hadn’t had a sheltered upbringing. His parents had always been frank about any topic from drug taking to the full spectrum of sexual preferences, and he’d been exposed to sex in some form or other on a daily basis in his enforced proximity with hordes of hormonal young males at boarding school and his university halls of residence. He recognised the smell, knew the signs, could tell at a glance if a girl and a boy who were ignoring each other had actually spent the night together. By the time he graduated, he could even hazard a pretty good guess at which acts they had performed. But the idea of people he knew, people he liked, having sex made him uncomfortable. Like imagining his parents together._

_Sarah’s smile wavered when Sherlock said nothing. He could smell John on her, could tell from the lines under her eyes that they’d had sex more than once the previous night. Vanilla but satisfactory for both parties; always a safe assumption on the man’s side but the happy smile still curling her lips amidst her uncertainty indicated that Sarah had enjoyed herself too._

_“Oh, er—” John entered just at that moment. He’d come down from his room upstairs; like Sarah, he was decently dressed and yet still radiated the decadence of a night of debauchery. He cleared his throat. “Um, Sherlock, you remember Sarah, right?”_

_Sherlock had known they were going out, and though John always smelled of soap and his own deodorant when he came home, Sherlock had assumed that Sarah wasn’t making him sleep on the lilo anymore. But this. He didn’t even know why this came as a surprise._

_“You usually go to her place,” stated Sherlock, before walking past them into the living room. “And you usually shower afterwards.”_

_John followed him. “You, um, you're all right with this, right? I mean, I knew you were going to be out last night, and, well, we just thought...”_

_“John, you're allowed to have sex with your girlfriend in the privacy of your own room.” Sherlock was about to flop down on the sofa, but rolled his eyes and sat on his chair instead._

_“Right. Thanks.” John turned, about to go back to Sarah, but stopped. “Oh, also, we're going to New Zealand. Me and Sarah. It's just, after what happened at the swimming pool…”_

_Sherlock felt as though ice had just been poured into his veins. “I see. No, I suppose I can't blame you. New Zealand ... that should be pretty safe. It's as far away from the swimming pool as you can get.” He stood up and fiddled with his things on the mantelpiece. “You'll probably have to give Mrs Hudson some kind of official notice, but I'm sure I can find a new flatmate—”_

_“A new— no, wait, I'm coming back.” John laughed. “It's just a holiday.”_

_Sherlock looked at him in surprise, a lot more relieved than he thought he should be. “Oh, good. That’s good.”_

_“Yeah. I mean, we have a crazed psychopath to defeat,” said John in a low voice. “I wouldn't miss that for the world!”_

_Sherlock returned John’s smile, though he felt a bit embarrassed by his own mistake. He watched as John turned away again and headed back into the kitchen._

_“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t have sex on the sofa again, though,” Sherlock called after him. “I have to sit on it, you know!”_

Dragging his thoughts away from their irrelevant content, Sherlock pulled himself out of the bathtub.

“I’m sure I can fob Janine off,” he told himself as he prepared to shave. “I’ll tell her I have a migraine or something.”

“You don’t go out with women much, do you?” said Mycroft.

Sherlock drew the razor up his left cheek. “That is deliciously ironic coming from you. I’m pretty sure you have even less experience than I do.”

“Being molested by your classmate’s father does not count as experience. Neither does being felt up in a gay—”

“Still better than nothing!” interrupted Sherlock in a sing-song voice. There was no need to hide the petulance in his tone; it wasn’t as if he was talking to anyone real. “Anyway, judging by the number of people on the planet, it can't be that difficult. I could do it. I just don’t want to.”

“Very wise,” agreed Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. Bad enough that he seemed to be in constant conversation with his brother these days, and now here he was imagining his approval.

“You should really be looking after your date,” pointed out John.

“Ah yes, show her a good time, keep her away from my irascible flatmate. I remember how you did it. I can do that too.”

Sherlock finished shaving, then ruffled his hair to let the curls form again. He grabbed a towel and left the bathroom to join Janine.

She had evidently been entertaining herself by fiddling with his things. Some of the papers on his desk had been moved half a centimetre and she was currently looking at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, the flap hat perched on her head.

“I didn’t know you were a fan,” he commented with amusement.

Janine jumped and took the hat off. “Jesus, Sherl, you gave me a fright!” She turned towards him and immediately turned away again. “Oh Lord, and you’re not wearing anything!”

“I’ve just come out of the bath,” said Sherlock ruefully. He had forgotten he was naked. He dried himself off with the towel he was holding and wrapped it around his waist.

_“So, do you usually walk around naked?” asked John conversationally. He was sitting on the sofa with his laptop and was carefully keeping his eyes averted from Sherlock’s naked body. “Only you didn’t mention that when you said you sometimes didn’t talk for hours and you played the violin.”_

_“Hmm, I have been known to play the violin naked too,” said Sherlock, picking his dressing gown off the back of his chair and slipping it on._

_“Now, that’s an image I didn’t need in my head.” John had that air of mild exasperation that Sherlock was only just beginning to appreciate; this was one of those moments when John’s entire attention was focussed on some minor misdemeanour on Sherlock’s part. John cleared his throat. “Can we agree you’ll keep your clothes on from now on?”_

_Sherlock sat at his desk and mentally added walking around naked to the growing list of things to do when he was bored and wanted John’s undivided attention for a few seconds._

“The hat suits you better than it suits me,” commented Sherlock to change the subject. He rearranged the papers on his desk. Fortunately, there was nothing Magnussen-related; he tended to store that kind of information on his computer or in his head. “I still don’t understand why people are so attached to it.”

“It’s just branding,” said Janine distractedly, allowing herself to look at him now his midriff was concealed. “The press likes to create heroes. Heroes sell papers until the public gets bored with them. Then the press can milk a bit more value from them while they tear them down. I’ve heard Magnussen and his minions discuss who should go next.” She put the hat back on the skull. “Anyway, the hat is your trademark. Like, I don't know, Superman and his cape.”

“I am not a hero, Janine.” Sherlock remembered saying that to John once, but the look of disappointment on John's face had hurt and he didn't want to dwell on the memory.

“Just as well,” said Janine with a mischievous smile. “I don't date heroes.”

Sherlock stared at Janine for a moment, trying to remember why he had invited her over. Ah right. To convince her this was a real relationship. “Um, do you want a drink?”

“Yes, I’d love one!” said Janine with a big smile. “What do you have?”

“No idea. I’m sure there’s something in the fridge. That’s usually where people keep drinks, isn’t it?” He strode past her to peer in the fridge at the back of the kitchen. “Hmm, on the other hand, maybe not. But I have milk. So, tea or coffee?”

“Coffee’s grand, thank you.” Janine joined him in the kitchen. “Do you not want to put some clothes on?”

“No, still wet,” said Sherlock. He hated getting dressed before he was dry and the towel was covering the lower half of his body anyway. He sniffed the milk. It didn’t smell of anything so he assumed it was comestible.

“Not that I’m complaining, mind,” added Janine. She was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table and observing him with amusement; which, come to think of it, she did quite often. There was a long pause before she said, “So, do you want me to put the kettle on?”

“She’s your guest, you’re supposed to make the drinks,” pointed out John.

“No, no, of course not,” said Sherlock. He filled the kettle and pulled out the ingredients to make himself a cup of tea, then rooted around in the kitchen cupboards in search of coffee, surprised by how empty they were. He wondered where the food came from that he ate every day, since it was obviously not stored in his kitchen.

“So, this is the famous 221B,” said Janine. She looked around. “Is it always like this?”

“Always like what?” Sherlock had found the coffee, which turned out to be exactly where he and John had always kept it in the past. There was a percolator there too; Sherlock observed it curiously, unsure how it worked.

“It’s, well… let’s just say I can tell by looking at it that you’re a man and you live on your own.”

“Really?” Sherlock followed her gaze. Everything looked the same as it always did. Functional and well-organised. “You already know I’m a man. But could you deduce it just by looking at the flat?”

“Well, yes…” She gave him a hesitant look before a smile curled her lips. “Okay. For a start, the place is a mess. It’s a bit… scuzzy, you know. I can tell you don’t do any housework. The floor gets hoovered sometimes, but all that stuff in the corners is thick with dust and it’s a bit grimy. I don’t know what it was like when John lived here too, but I can tell you live on your own; it’s obvious nobody ever tells you to tidy up your stuff.”

“That would be because I don’t live with my mother,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Well, I’m sure your Mam would have pointed out you’ve got shaving cream on your neck.” Janine wiped it off with a kitchen towel, her fingers lingering on his skin just long enough to make him shiver. “You need someone to look after you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I see.” Sherlock stepped away from her. “First you wanted to be my PA and now you’re applying to be my housekeeper.”

Janine laughed. “On your bike, mister! You should get yourself a cleaner. I’m sure Mrs Hudson would do it for you if you asked.”

She was right, though. Looking at his own apartment with his critical deductive capabilities, Sherlock saw exactly what she had described: a man who lived alone and didn’t enjoy it very much. He didn’t want to continue this conversation.

“I don’t know how this works,” he said, handing her the percolator.

“Oh, okay, I’ll make it then.” She raised her eyebrows. “Can you handle making your cup of tea?”

Sherlock just pouted. Janine put the kettle on and set about making herself a cup of coffee while Sherlock prepared his mug of tea. 

“Why don’t you keep the coffee in the same cupboard as the sugar?” asked Janine when Sherlock reached over her shoulder to get the sugar.

“No idea. I think John kept it there.”

It was hard to believe now that John used to live here. Maybe that was why the place was so unkempt; he was pretty sure John sometimes did some cleaning back in the old days. The old days. That was nearly three years ago.

How had time passed so quickly? Sherlock had only planned to be away for a few months; by all accounts, Moriarty’s network had practically crumbled as soon as its head was severed. But Sherlock had always found some new target to pursue as he tried to bring each successive criminal to justice, always some reason why now wasn’t the right time to text or email John and let him know he was alive and coming back…

But then he had come back, and John had forgiven him and now he was married. It was fine. It was all fine.

“You okay?”

Janine’s hand was on his bare arm. Sherlock blinked. “Sorry? Oh, yes, fine.”

“You looked a bit lost.” She sounded worried; looking down at her hands, Sherlock realised her coffee was made and she’d finished making his tea as well.

“Janine, why do you like me?” he asked, the question blurting out before he could stop it.

Janine’s worried expression softened. “Because you’re gorgeous and you’re clever. And okay, maybe I’m just a tiny bit of a fan.” She rubbed his shoulder, a friendly gesture that felt quite nice. “Also, you’re not like any other man I’ve ever dated. I’m a bit intrigued to know what’s going on in there.” She tapped his forehead.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m not so different from other men,” he said, trying to get back into character.

Janine gave him a cheeky smile. “I agree. But don't worry, I won't let on.”

She leaned over and kissed his lips; her lipstick had worn off onto the cup and her lips tasted only of coffee. Sherlock closed his eyes and let her lead as she very gently sucked his bottom lip a few times before she moved to do the same to his top lip. She slid her arms around his neck, the fine hairs on her bare skin brushing against his neck and upper chest. He shivered at the unfamiliar sensation; it wasn't an area that tended to get much attention.

_“Sherlock, take your shirt off.”_

_Sherlock gave John an amused look. “What, here in the living room? What if Mrs Hudson comes in?”_

_This was after the New Zealand holiday, weeks after the swimming pool when John had commented on Sherlock tearing his clothes off, so Sherlock was fairly confident that the removal of garments was a suitable topic for banter after a particularly thrilling chase._

_“You're bleeding,” said John seriously. “Get your shirt off now.”_

_“I probably grazed myself when I fell through the window,” said Sherlock dismissively, though he did as he was told. He rather liked it when John got all authoritative and competent. It reminded him that John actually knew how to do a lot of things that Sherlock couldn’t do, like shoot straight and save lives._

_John pointed at one of the kitchen chairs. “Sit!”_

_Once Sherlock was sitting down, stripped to the waist, John gently pushed him forwards so that he was leaning over the table, his back under the kitchen light. John went to fetch something from the bathroom; Sherlock didn’t see what as he stayed in the position John had put him in._

_“It’s lucky I looked. You’ve got some glass in your back. Nothing serious, just some little bits, but the pieces need to come out.” John started to tweeze out the pieces, dropping them into a takeaway container on the table. His other hand was flat on Sherlock’s back, a soft warm patch just above his right shoulder blade. “That was really stupid, Sherlock. You can’t just throw yourself through windows in your shirt sleeves!”_

_“You said my coat would be too conspicuous,” protested Sherlock. “That on a hot day like today, nobody in their right mind would—ow!”_

_“Sit still. You know, Sherlock, there are days when I don’t know how you survived without me.”_

_Even back then, when Sherlock had thought it would last forever, he’d asked himself the same question. He closed his eyes as John started to dab something on his wounds. He knew that it was just a physical reaction to stimuli, both the pain of the glass and the gentleness of John's touch, but it felt very pleasant; thrilling, even. When John was finished, Sherlock looked up at him and wished John would touch him again. ___

Remembering that scene as Janine kissed him, Sherlock imagined what would have happened if he had straightened up at that point, facing John and taking him in his arms. It was a strange thought that he would normally have rejected, but with Janine kissing him, his mind seemed willing to follow it. Would kissing John have felt like this?

Spurred on by the thought, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Janine and opened his mouth against hers. Her lips parted and he tried not to think about how distasteful he usually found the sight of other people doing this.

The sensation was surprisingly satisfying as Janine responded in kind, expertly deepening the kiss and sliding her fingers up into Sherlock's wet hair. Would John have done that? Would he have been as good at kissing as he was at everything else that mattered, his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, his arms brushing against Sherlock's bare skin, his strong, stocky body against his. Janine pressed against him, the cotton of her summer dress rubbing against his naked chest, her lower abdomen applying a light pressure on his groin. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open; this was actually giving him an--

Sherlock stepped away, out of breath and disconcerted by what was happening. “I, um, actually, it— it is a bit cold in here,” he stammered. “I should go and put some clothes on.”

Not waiting to see Janine's reaction, Sherlock fled into his bedroom and leaned against the door, trying to regain his control.

“Well, that's a turn up for the books, isn't it,” said John, apparently sitting on Sherlock's bed. “A very convincing performance.”

“Shut up,” snapped Sherlock. He wiped his face and hair with the towel, willing himself to calm down.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” said Mycroft.

“Shut up!” repeated Sherlock, pulling on some clothes and taking a deep breath. “It's nothing, it's happened before.”

_“I don't mind,” said Sherlock, placing his hand on Mr Trevor's shoulder._

_Mr Trevor’s expression hardened and he pushed Sherlock up against the wall, pressing their lips together. Sherlock had a theoretical knowledge of what would happen, but the sensation of being kissed, of Mr Trevor’s hands groping him, caught him by surprise. Even as a teenager, he’d always considered sex an inconvenience, a biological process to be ignored like all the others. But this was different. He wanted this._

_He kissed Mr Trevor back, his enthusiasm filling in for his lack of experience. Mr Trevor pressed his body against Sherlock's and there could be no doubt he wanted this too. But to Sherlock's confusion, he pulled away after only a few seconds._

_“You should go,” he hissed breathlessly. He returned to his desk, rearranging his clothes and regaining his composure._

_Sherlock stared at him. “But—”_

_“Just go. Please.”_

_Sherlock blinked, confused and uncertain. He heard Victor’s voice out in the corridor._

_“Hey, Sherlock, where are you? Fancy a game of tennis?”_

_Sherlock had never been one to mind other people’s feelings, but he knew Mr Trevor wouldn’t want Victor to know. He smoothed his shirt and ran his hands through his hair, and went to join his friend out in the corridor._

“That isn’t helping,” grumbled Sherlock.

He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on something else. He pictured Magnussen again, placed him standing by the wardrobe, and that was enough to calm him down.

“I’ll be fine,” said Sherlock. He steeled himself and went to join Janine again.

Janine was sitting on the sofa in the living room, drinking her coffee and reading one of the women's magazines from Sherlock's coffee table. She looked up when Sherlock came in. Sherlock observed her for a moment; she was reasonably pretty, he supposed, and entertaining to be with, but ordinary, stuck in the mundane preoccupations of everyday life. He found it very difficult to believe she'd had such an effect on him only a few minutes ago.

“She wasn't the one having the effect, though, was she?” said John.

Ignoring his own thoughts, Sherlock sat down next to her, at a respectful distance. To his relief, Janine didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd about his hasty departure earlier. She just put the magazine down and have him a friendly smile.

“I closed the window for you. It was a bit nippy in here.” She sipped her coffee. “Oh, I meant to say. I saw Mary yesterday. You were right; she’s up the duff! Apparently, John is over the moon. They're both very excited.”

Both very excited. Yes, that was the most important thing in John's life now. The next generation. Nothing was more important.

He pictured John and Mary standing in the middle of his living room, looking down at the tiny baby in Mary's arms. The John who usually inhabited his thoughts was there too, sitting in his chair by the fireplace.

“Maybe it's time to let me go,” said John. “My family needs me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them, the Watsons were all gone. John's chair by the fireplace was empty, as it would remain from now on, occasional visitors notwithstanding.

“Apparently, she’s got some tests to do because of her age, so they’re not out of the woods yet,” continued Janine.

Sherlock tried to drag himself back into the conversation. “Yes, the statistics for the first trimester—”

“I know, she was telling me!” interrupted Janine, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, knowing you’ve nearly got what you’ve always wanted and you still have to wait and find out if it’s going to happen. You have no idea how happy she was when John proposed. She said it was like a dream come true. A family of her own.”

“Yes. John is a lucky man.” Sherlock sat back on the sofa. “I'm sure the baby will be fine.” The alternative was unthinkable. “Maybe she shouldn’t have left it so late.”

“Ah, Mary's had a hard life. You can’t always meet Mr Right in your thirties.”

“You’d better hurry up too,” he said thoughtfully, estimating Janine's age. “It’ll be a lot easier for you if you have children before you’re thirty-five. The odds worsen immensely after that age.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Janine sounded amused rather than offended. “You let me know if you spot my Mr Right, okay?”

“You’re supposed to be her Mr Right, remember?” said Mycroft.

That's right, he was supposed to be her prospective lover. Sherlock relaxed into the role again.

“Well, I’m hoping you’ve already found him,” said Sherlock with a winning smile.

Janine’s brown eyes widened as if she hadn’t seen their relationship in that light, but then she nodded and patted his knee. “Sure you are. I haven’t told Mary, by the way. She didn’t see that bit online about you dining with a ‘mystery lady’ and she was so busy talking about the baby and other stuff, she didn’t ask about what happened with Nigel from the wedding.”

“Nigel? Oh, the geek. Right. No, I’d rather you didn’t tell her quite yet.” Sherlock took her hand still resting on his knee. “I’d like to keep this quiet a bit longer. Our little secret.”

Janine leaned in and kissed his lips. Without the irrelevant thoughts about John, it was merely a pleasant sensation.

“It won’t be easy to lie to her,” said Janine, sitting back again. “We normally tell each other everything.”

“Really?” Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. He remembered that his mother’s small handful of friends always seemed to know way more about him than he liked when he was a child.

“Ah, don’t worry, as long as you’re nice to me, I promise I won’t tell anyone about the real you,” she said, squeezing his hand. “So, tell me, do you have any food in this place, or are we going to eat those fingers in the fridge?”

Sherlock looked in the direction of the kitchen, though he couldn’t see the fridge from here. “Er, no, I’m afraid that’s probably all I have. I mean, not that I eat fingers.” He frowned, trying to remember the last meal he had eaten. “I think Mrs Hudson usually brings something up.”

“Nice you have a surrogate Mam living downstairs,” laughed Janine. “I'll tell her to make you pick your things up more often.”

“There's a great Chinese around the corner,” he said to change the subject. He sprang to his feet. “Do you know you can always tell a good Chinese from the bottom third of the door?”

“Ah, you're after kidding me, right?” said Janine good-naturedly. She gathered her things.

“Hmm, sounds good, though, doesn't it?” he said with a wink.


	10. Chapter 10

“You know I do deliveries, right?”

Sherlock paused in his measurements. He leaned back in the broken armchair he was sitting in and gave Wiggins a sideways glare. They were in a separate room in the abandoned house, which Sherlock was using as a makeshift lab to concoct one of his favourite cocktails of drugs. Quite why Wiggins was still hanging around was a mystery to him.

“I mean you don’t have to come here,” continued Wiggins, undeterred. “I can knock you up a speedball at the lab and bring it over. It's not like I don't know where you live. I can be discreet. The paps would never know, if you've got some camped outside your house. So I therefore conclude there’s a reason you come here, innit?”

“Brilliant deduction,” grumbled Sherlock. “It certainly isn't because I get to enjoy the drugs in peace.”

“Exactly!” said Wiggins, evidently missing the sarcasm. “I think you want to be noticed. You want someone to think you’re down and out, slumming it and trying to hide your habit by coming here incognito. This is for a case.”

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?” asked Sherlock, ripping a syringe out of its packaging.

Wiggins indicated the mixture in front of Sherlock. “Probably best if I stick around. Speedball’s something you have to treat with respect or you’ll end up like that guy with the funny name. River Phoenix, that’s it. Though I never saw someone make one with morphine. It’s usually heroin.”

“This is the original version,” said Sherlock, loading the syringe. “Cocaine hydrochloride and morphine sulphate. A high and a low all wrapped into one.”

“Right. Still, it’d be a bummer if you turned your toes up in my gaff, Shezza. You know, a loss of a great mind and the Reichenbach Hero all that.”

“Well, you _used_ to have a great mind,” commented Mycroft.

_“How the bloody hell did you find out?” snarled Hudson, glaring up at Sherlock from the sofa._

_“Oh, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Sherlock, cleaning his glasses nonchalantly._

_“Not to us, it isn’t, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, who was sitting on the leather sofa opposite her husband’s._

_Sherlock put his glasses back on. The “cops” who had just arrested Hudson seemed mystified, even the detective who was leading the case. Hudson’s secretary looked equally blank, though Sherlock suspected that was her usual expression. He was surprised; he had been raised to hold the police in high esteem and it seemed incredible that professionals with many years of experience might have missed the clues he had followed. Maybe they were just testing him or something. He sighed._

_“All right, some background in case you missed it. Frank Hudson is the head of a small drug cartel here in Florida. He used to run a similar operation in London, but had to leave after murdering one of his rivals in Brixton four years ago. That put not only the police but his rival’s associates on his tail. The heat became too much and he decided to skip the country after obtaining the necessary funds through extortion. For some reason he also brought his wife.”_

_“Well, I didn’t know why we were moving, but I was hardly going to let him come all the way over here to a foreign country without someone to look after him, was I!” said Mrs Hudson. Her husband have her an irritated look that suggested it was very much her idea rather than his._

_“As soon as he arrived here, Hudson set up business again under the guise of running a strip club in Miami,” resumed Sherlock. “But a week ago, everything changed. It’s possible that Hudson heard I was looking for him and thought I was one of the Brixton gang—”_

_“Not bloody likely. They'd see you far, you poof!”_

_“—More likely, he had impressed some native competitors with his charm and personality. He had certainly attracted the attention of the police, including Detective... whatever your name is—”_

_“Captain Marvin.”_

_“Really?” Sherlock eyed the police officer suspiciously. “Right. Anyway. Hudson was known to the local police. As it turns out, he was also being investigated by a police detective from Palm Beach over the suspicious death of a stripper. Perhaps realising that he would continue to be pursued as long as he was alive, he did what anyone would do in that situation and faked his own death.”_

_Sherlock looked around; everyone was staring at him, hanging on his every word as if none of this had occurred to them. Maybe it wasn’t a test after all; the police couldn’t be faking this much rapt attention. On the other hand, he could get used to this._

_“It was convincing, I’ll grant him that,” he continued with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “The body was identified as his by none other than his wife; some flimsy forensic evidence was collected that suggested a break-in at the flat; Hudson was, of course, known to have enemies, even in his guise as a ‘legitimate’ strip club owner. Someone obviously broke into his flat and blew his head off with a sawn-off shotgun. Case closed, right?”_

_Sherlock pointed at Marvin and shook his head._

_“Wrong!” He twirled on the spot to look at the secretary sitting next to Mrs Hudson. “I had my suspicions as soon as I spoke to his secretary, Miss Marianne here.”_

_“Carrie Ann,” corrected the girl. When everyone turned to look at her, she pulled down on her tight t-shirt and arched her back to make her bust stand out more._

_“The other young women I had spoken to thought Hudson was really dead. They were genuinely distraught at losing the sugar daddy who kept them supplied in drugs and nice clothes in exchange for their sexual favours.”_

_Mrs Hudson glared at her husband. He had the grace to look a little cowed._

_“But the minute I talked to this young lady, I realised she was lying,” continued Sherlock. “Oh, she said all the same things as the other girls; how Frank Hudson had been surprised by a burglar at his Miami 'condo' and got his head blown off. But she wasn’t a good enough actress to be entirely convincing and I immediately knew there was something else going on here.” He looked at Hudson. “Rule number one of faking your own death: only take good liars into your confidence.”_

_Sherlock turned his attention to Mrs Hudson. “The next clue was when I visited the mortuary and discovered that the body had been identified on the basis of the clothes and jewellery it was wearing. A very poor method of identification, Mrs Hudson.”_

_“I was hardly going to ask them to show me the body naked!” protested Mrs Hudson. “It wouldn’t be decent in front of all those people.”_

_“An interesting sentiment coming from a former stripper. And yet, if you had looked at the naked body, you would have noticed that the man was circumcised, a practice that is far more common in the United States than in the UK. The man in the morgue was an American. Of course, when I came here and met you, I realised it was an all too familiar story. Married man meets woman half his age, gets into a spot of bother at work, and decides to leave his wife and work behind by faking his own death.”_

_“Well, really!” tutted Mrs Hudson._

_“Investigating further, it was only a matter of time before I found the real identity of the dead man. A homicide detective from Palm Beach called Ted Baldwin was reported missing last week. His age and build were practically identical to Hudson’s. It wasn’t difficult to work out that Baldwin had confronted Hudson and been murdered for his pains._

_“All I needed to do next was flush Hudson out of his hiding place—presumably his cottage in the countryside.” He pointed at the picture of Hudson holding a fish. “Assuming that his secretary was in contact with him, I asked his wife to tell her that she was going to throw out all his trophies and photographs.” He picked up the autographed picture of the footballer with bad hair. “A couple of phone calls back home revealed that this is quite a valuable piece of football memorabilia for people who are into that kind of thing. Sir Bobby Charlton, the hero of the 1966 World Cup. I gambled that Hudson would not want to lose it and might even be prepared to come and get it himself. As you can see, I was right.”_

_Hudson glared at him. “He's only doing this because he blames me for his boyfriend’s suicide.”_

_“He wasn’t my boyfriend and the coroner ruled it was an accidental overdose,” said Sherlock confidently. “I’m doing this because you are a murderer, a drug dealer and a cheat who preys on the good nature of people like your wife and this young lady, and I want to ensure you get your just desserts.”_

_He looked around. “Does Florida still have the death penalty?” One of the policemen nodded. “Really? How very medieval of you.” Sherlock smiled with satisfaction. “Still, that’s a bonus, isn't it? You picked the wrong place to kill a cop.” He turned to Marvin. “So, there’s your case against Frank Hudson, captain. Any questions?”_

_“Yes,” said Marvin. “Who the hell are you?”_

“I had a man executed once, in Florida,” said Sherlock, observing the sharp tip of the syringe thoughtfully. “Left to their own devices, they would probably have stuck him in jail for the rest of his life, but I convinced them to apply the death penalty instead.”

“A bit late to be feeling guilty,” scoffed Mycroft.

“I don’t regret it. But I doubt the media would have built me up to be such a hero if they’d known about that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mycroft. “Given the right spin, people will quite gladly forgive anything, even murder. A little helping hand in securing a legal death penalty would be nothing. Ask John how many people he has killed.”

Sherlock glared at his imaginary Mycroft and strapped the tourniquet around his upper arm. He pictured his brother looking down at the needle with disapproval. Though he smoked and drank alcohol, Mycroft had never taken drugs and had always vehemently disapproved of Sherlock’s habits.

Sherlock lined up the syringe with the irregular blue vein in the crook of his arm and pushed it in. Mycroft vanished as the drug began to take effect.

“Did he deserve it?” asked Wiggins. Sherlock gave him a blank look. “The guy in Florida. The one who was executed. Did he deserve it?”

  
_“So which one of you takes it up the bum?” Even from his concealed position in the corridor outside Mr Trevor’s office, Sherlock could hear the disgust in Hudson’s voice. “Probably the kid. You can tell he’s a bender a mile off. Artsy, boffin type. Bet he’s never kicked a football in his life.”_

_“I am not involved with Sherlock,” said Trevor coldly, even though this was after their passionate kiss the day before. “I made a mistake once and that’s all in the past now.”_

_“Yeah, as long as you keep_ paying _for it, right?” Hudson’s husky laugh made Sherlock’s skin crawl._

_“Here, this is all I can give you without my bank getting suspicious,” said Trevor, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. “You can have the rest next week. Now leave!”_

_Hudson apparently made no move to leave. “I don’t know what disgusts me more. That they let your lot into this country to take our jobs and our stately homes, or that they no longer clap fudge-packers like you and that kid into jail. Forced labour, that’s what you need. Knock it out of you. Still, keep the money coming and I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Might visit our old mate Beddoes while I’m here, mind you...”_  


“Yes, he definitely deserved it,” said Sherlock, settling back in the broken armchair. He dropped the needle to the floor and unstrapped the tourniquet.

“Well, there you go.” Wiggins lit a spliff and took a puff. “You probably did someone a favour.”

_“…It’s in a bit of a state, mind you. My aunt Vera used to live there and she never could make up her mind. She put different wallpaper on every wall. Imagine! I keep meaning to get someone in to redecorate so I can rent it out properly, but you can stay there as long as you like, dear.”_

_“Right.” Sherlock was still unsure exactly how Mrs Hudson had convinced him to visit her. He didn’t usually visit old ladies in their homes. And apparently, she had decided he was moving in._

_“It would be lovely to have you living here. You’ll have to pay some rent to help me pay the mortgage, but you can go halves with your boyfriend if you like.”_

_“I don’t have—”_

_“I owe you a favour,” continued Mrs Hudson. “You know, thinking about it now, Frank wasn’t very nice to me. It was a relief not to have him around anymore.” She grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “It’s so good of you to help me out.”_

“Then there was that guy what’s his name,” said Wiggins, breaking into Sherlock’s thoughts. The guy never shut up when he was high. “Moriarty. The master criminal. They had a whole thing about how you’d paid an actor to play him and then shot him on that roof. And then it turned out he really was a master criminal and suddenly nobody was so concerned about whether you did him in or not.”

Sherlock contemplated the hairs on the back of his hand and said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood to explain that he hadn’t actually murdered Moriarty.

“I suppose killing evil people is the only way sometimes," continued Wiggins. "Cos you know if you just arrest them, they’ll be let off on a technicality or only serve a couple of years for good behaviour or something. Some people don’t learn anything from being locked up anyway. Like paedophiles. Hanging’s too good for ‘em. So sometimes, it’s okay to kill people like that. Especially if you shoot them in self-defence or something.”

Sherlock frowned at Wiggins. “Are you suggesting I should go around shooting people?”

“No. Just saying there’s some bastards out there who deserve it, innit. You know, people who aren’t very nice.”

_“Yes, of course I’m all right,” said John calmly, his large eyes looking up guilelessly at Sherlock._

_For a split second, Sherlock wondered if his deduction was correct. John hadn’t contradicted him so far when he mentioned the powder burns and doing time, but it was still possible that John might not have been involved. After all, Sherlock had only known him for a few hours and he had—occasionally—been wrong about things. But the evidence was too strong; the killer had to be conditioned to violence, a crack shot who kept up his skills through regular practice, someone who owned a handgun. Someone who wanted to save Sherlock’s life._

_John was the killer. This mild-mannered, handsome doctor was a killer._

_“Well, you have just killed a man,” said Sherlock, keeping his voice confident and hoping John would confirm his deduction one way or the other._

_“Yes, I—” started John, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat at the thought that John already trusted him enough to confess to a crime that could send him to jail. “It’s true, isn’t it?” He looked away for a moment, and then he looked back at Sherlock again, his features still deadpan. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”_

_“No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?” agreed Sherlock, relaxing now he was certain John wasn’t going to be wracked with guilt._

_“No, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie!” added John._

_Sherlock laughed. “That’s true, he was a bad cabbie.” He turned and walked away from the crime scene. “You should have seen the route he took us to get here!”_

_He could feel more laughter bubbling up inside, an irrational reaction to the tension he had felt when he was choosing the pill, and the irritation of being pawed by paramedics and policemen. But also the exhilaration of finding the killer and working out why he had done it. And the sheer delight at meeting someone who could empathise with a murder victim and still shoot her killer without batting an eyelid._

_“Stop it!” admonished John, looking around at the people close by even though he was laughing too. “We can’t giggle at a crime scene!”_

_“You’re the one who shot him!”_

_John laughed again and Sherlock laughed with him, and it was so easy. This was perfect. John was perfect._

Sherlock laughed out loud at the memory. God, he missed John.

And yet, life carried on. Here he was, getting high and romancing some woman for a case that wasn’t even a mystery. A case that quite frankly would be downright boring if Magnussen didn’t so clearly deserve to be knocked down a peg or two. Boring, boring, boring. Boredom. That was the final problem, wasn’t it? How to carry on when life was so dreary and _boring_. Sherlock laughed again, because it was all so ridiculous you could do little else.

“Good stuff, I take it?” said Wiggins with amusement. 

Sherlock grinned at him. “Yes, you should try it.”

“Nah. Don’t like needles.” Wiggins waved his joint. “I’m happy with the soft stuff. Do you even say ‘soft stuff’? I mix a mean cocktail, though. One guy I sold my version to said it was better than sex.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. 

“Really? You actually mean that, like, literally?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t get what all the fuss is about,” he said, though that wasn’t entirely true.

“You’ve really never had it off with anyone?” continued Wiggins in disbelief. “I thought you lived with that bloke, what was his name? Wilson?”

“Watson,” said Sherlock. “We weren’t a couple.”

  
_“We’re not a couple.”_

_From his hiding place in the shadows, Sherlock could see John’s face clearly. Adler’s was concealed._

_“Yes, you are,” she said. She rapidly composed a text on her phone. “There. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’”_

_Sherlock briefly pondered whether to turn his phone off or at least set it to vibrate only, since it would alert them to his presence as soon as the text message was delivered. But he was curious; he had been biding his time ever since he had seen the body—obviously not Adler’s—and surmised that her decision to “die” where the corpse would end up on Molly’s autopsy table at Christmas meant that it was all a message for him. Keeping up the pretence of being heartbroken to further her deception had been fun; Sherlock rather liked having John and Mrs Hudson fussing over him._

_“Who—“ John was staring at Adler intensely. “Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record—if anyone out there still cares—I’m not actually gay.”_

_“Well, I_ am _. Look at us both.”_

_Look at them both. But why? What did she mean? John’s laugh suggested that he, unlike Sherlock, understood immediately what Adler meant. But then her text message finally made it across their competing network operators and Sherlock’s phone went off with an orgasmic sigh._  


“So what’s up with that? You’re not that ugly. I mean you’ve got a bit of that posh chinless thing going on, but I'm sure there are plenty of guys out there who would. Or women. You know, whatever you're into.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

His mind went back to the hotel in Karachi. Would Irene have had sexual intercourse with him? She had expressed a desire to "have" him a couple of times, and had become apparently quite excited at the thought. He wondered idly if he would enjoy begging for mercy twice. Of course, some of that had been her trying to distract him from the game she was playing. But the offer in Karachi had been sincere.

However, that was all in the past. Last he had heard, Irene was in Australia with her girlfriend. The moment had passed.

Given how unimpressed people who didn’t know him usually were with his normal behaviour, he would have to pick from among the small number people who already tolerated him. He could easily dismiss all his male acquaintances; they were all boringly heterosexual. In fact, of all his friends, the only one he thought might seriously consider sleeping with him was Molly. By all accounts, she'd had a crush on him for years, and her romantic fantasies presumably included having sex with him.

_Molly was busy with a tray of specimens, but Sherlock needed her help. John's stag do was less than a week away and he needed it to be perfect. He needed everything related to the wedding in two weeks' time to be perfect and the stag do was only a week away. In one week, he had to demonstrate that John had been right to pick him as best man. Everything needed to be perfect for John. Sherlock needed Molly to stop doing whatever she was doing to those specimens and help him right now._

_He had tried the usual tack of complimenting her, though she had long since worked that out and just looked at him with amusement. He needed to demonstrate interest in her personal affairs another way now._

_”How’s—“ Sherlock struggled a moment, sifting through his memories for the name he was after._

_Tall, long coat, scarf around his neck. Sherlock had first met him at Baker Street, shaken his hand just before going out with John on a case._

_“Did you, er—“ John had started when they were outside in the corridor._

_Sherlock pulled his scarf around his neck. “I’m not saying a word.”_

_“No, best not,” agreed John._

_“Tom!” said Sherlock, the mental association now made between that scene and the name of Molly’s fiancé._

_“Not a sociopath.”_

_“Still?” said Sherlock. He hoped Molly had got that part right; it was something even Sherlock had missed when he first met Moriarty. “Good.”_

_Molly grinned happily. “And we’re having quite a lot of sex.”_

_Sherlock tried to picture that. Or rather tried not to picture it, and failed. He imagined Molly naked on her back, pale skin and bony hips, her fiancé, equally lanky and white, lying on top of her. Her long legs on either side of his narrow, bucking hips. He was a lot taller than her, though. How did people have sex in that case? Did Molly have to put up with a view of her fiancé’s chest hair when they had sex? Or would he be lying down while she sat on him? Both options were equally disturbing._

_“Okay,” said Sherlock finally, trying to get his brain back on task. He pulled out the files he had compiled on himself and John. “I want you to calculate John’s ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening.”_

No, he would never have sex with Molly. It would break her heart if she thought it was real, or even if she knew he was just using her. She was a friend. As strange as it seemed to realise this, he didn't want to hurt her. Besides, from a purely pragmatic point of view, he often needed her help on his cases, and that would be far easier to obtain from a close friend than an ex-lover. But more importantly, he really didn’t want to.

"What about that girl you were having dinner with the other day?” suggested Wiggins, even though Sherlock was pretty sure he hadn’t voiced his musings out loud. At least, he hoped he hadn’t. “The one they mentioned in the paper? Or is that for a case too?

Sherlock pictured Janine in the lilac dress again. He wondered idly if she still had it; he had spent a lot of time choosing the right dress for Mary’s bridesmaids and he hoped they appreciated his taste. Yes. Janine was the logical choice; she was apparently attracted to him and there was no reason to believe he'd see her again once he was finished with Magnussen. Having sex with her would have no consequences.

Besides, he had enjoyed kissing her.

"Yes. I suppose I could."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to seduce Janine and does some research.

Sherlock peered at the screen, trying to work out whether the bookshelf in the background was indeed an Ikea Billy unit as he had originally surmised. He lit a cigarette and smiled as a change in the actors’ positions gave him a better view of the furniture in the room. Just as he thought. The footage was shot in the United States and most of the furniture was from Ikea. Someone’s actual home, then, rather than a film set. Now, how did the girl get that nasty bruise on her left calf that was so poorly disguised by the heavy concealer makeup? A blow from the wheel of a pushchair? A kick from a toddler's little booted foot?

Realising what he was doing, Sherlock tried to concentrate on the main purpose of the film: polished, hairless genitalia engaged in pointless sexual intercourse.

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally reached puberty,” scoffed Mycroft as if he’d just wandered in and noticed what his brother was doing. Sherlock made a mental note to repeat this scene when his real brother was around, just to see what his reaction would be.

“Why are you always in my head?” asked Sherlock, scowling over his shoulder at the figure he imagined behind him. “You never used to be this annoying.”

Mycroft pointed at the screen. “You never used to be this bored.”

Sherlock returned his attention to the screen. The couple had changed position but their facial expressions hadn’t improved. They both looked rather constipated. Sherlock let the video run and looked out of the window instead. Same identical Georgian houses, walls rendered and painted white on the ground floor above the basement areas, brown brick upper floors with their diminishing windows as each storey climbed up to the old servants’ quarters. He had missed that view when he was away; he barely noticed it now.

“You know someone might see your screen from the street. They wouldn’t even need a telephoto lens,” continued Mycroft. “I suppose on the plus side, that should give Magnussen the illusion of control you are hoping to instil. Though drugs _and_ pornography? Don’t you think you might be laying it on a bit thick?”

Sherlock looked down at the street: there was indeed a man loitering outside 224 over the road. Poor personal hygiene, ill-fitting clothes, but high quality phone in his hand and a clear interest in Sherlock’s building. Definitely a journalist.

He looked at the screen again; different setting, but the same two people with surgically enhanced body parts so carefully epilated that they resembled nothing more than a pair of plastic dolls.

“You’re planning to seduce Janine,” said Mycroft as if he had just noticed the tidied apartment and the table Sherlock had set in the kitchen—complete with candles. He had also procured some condoms and entertained himself part of the day with testing the durability and strength of the latex.

“Why not?" said Sherlock with a shrug. "It will further my current case by encouraging her loyalty to me.”

“Given your experiences to date, I wouldn’t have thought sex with a woman was your area,” said Mycroft.

“No, I’ll grant you that my past experiences suggest I’m more likely to be gay.” Sherlock paused the video on a close-up of the male protagonist’s aroused private parts and observed them dispassionately. “Except it turned out that wasn’t really my area either.”

_“The coroner finally published his report into Brunton’s death, by the way. Asphyxiation, just like you said. He must have suffocated when the stone lid fell back onto the cellar.” Reg took a drag from his cigarette and looked at Sherlock with amusement. “Anyway, thought you might like to know you were right.”_

_“Of course I was,” said Sherlock dismissively, pulling out a cigarette of his own. This was before the smoking ban, when bars like this one on Old Compton Street still allowed patrons to smoke inside. “And it didn’t take me several weeks to work it out.”_

_Reg patted Sherlock’s hand flirtatiously. “Yes, you were amazing. I would never have worked out what that silly old rhyme meant without your help.”_

_“True.” Sherlock observed Reg’s languid aristocratic features and rolled his eyes. “You lacked the necessary intellect to decipher what was basically a very simple riddle. You and all your ancestors for generations. Clearly, the ancestor who wrote the original ‘Musgrave Ritual’ had higher expectations for his descendants.”_

_“Just as well I met you,” said Reg with a laugh, his hand still holding Sherlock’s. “That’s why toffs like us need clever plebs like you.”_

_“Not many people would call me a pleb,” said Sherlock, though he gave Reg a shy smile._

_“I think as the keeper of Charles I’s royal crown, I can call anyone anything I like!”_

_Despite being a complete idiot, Reg was pleasant company; he had been among the small number who admired Sherlock’s talents at university instead of finding them freaky, like Victor and a few girls whose names Sherlock couldn’t remember. He was also the first person to call on Sherlock for a bona fide case, involving an old family riddle and a murdered butler no less. Sherlock hadn’t had that much fun since his trip to Florida._

_Looking beyond Reg, Sherlock noticed a waiter coming in from the back. He was a burly, bearded man in a long sleeved top and looked around furtively as he entered. He exchanged a few words with the barman, who looked surprised, as if the man wasn’t supposed to be there at this time. This was a bar that stayed open until the early hours of the morning, so it was possible that the man was early for his shift—given the barman’s surprise, early seemed more likely than late. But there was something more going on..._

_“Hmm?” Sherlock realised Reg was talking to him._

_“I said I’d never noticed your cheekbones before. You look really good without the glasses.”_

_“Yes. Laser eye surgery three weeks ago. Does wonders for the short of sight.”_

_Sherlock frowned and tried to work out what the man had been doing. It wasn’t a wet night; no mud on his shoes, but there were traces of something on his trousers. Squinting through force of habit, Sherlock observed the trousers more closely; some green residue. Mould? Moss? Had the man been up to something in a park, for instance? There was also a faint line on his right sleeve, as if something metallic, possibly a bit rusty, had been pressed hard against the material. What kind of metal bar would someone exert force on with their forearm?_

_Sherlock pictured the man performing various activities with some indeterminate rusty metal bar, and sat back in his chair and smiled when a plausible explanation came to him._

_“That man has just committed a burglary. No, don’t look,” he added when Reg turned around. “He has come here to give himself an alibi.”_

_“You never take a break, do you?” said Reg tenderly._

_“It’s my work,” explained Sherlock, surprised that Reg didn’t understand that. He had remained very focussed during the case at the Musgraves’ ancestral home in Hurlstone._

_Reg took Sherlock’s other hand in his. “I know, and you’re brilliant at it. You’re definitely going to be a very successful detective one day. But you can have a holiday once in a while. I was hoping maybe we could … relax together.”_

_Sherlock frowned at Reg, momentarily puzzled, though everything made more sense when Reg leaned in to kiss him. It hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s attention that Reg had left the closet he had inhabited at university, and they were in a gay bar after all. Sherlock let Reg kiss him and closed his eyes, pleasantly stimulated by the touch. It wasn’t the passionate embrace he had shared with Mr Trevor, but it was enjoyable. He was about to respond more fully when he opened his eyes and realised the waiter who interested him was clearing away their empty glasses. Sherlock pulled away from Reg and observed the man’s sleeve keenly._

_“Just what I thought. A crowbar. And moss from a leaking drainpipe, I believe,” he added, looking down at the man’s trousers._

_The man’s eyes widened and he scurried away. So that was it. The waiter had been breaking and entering just before starting his shift. Sherlock’s satisfaction at his deduction was interrupted when the scene became even more interesting._

_Two men in plain clothes, one of them in a beige mac like some old TV detective, walked in and looked around. They were clearly not gay or looking for a drink; Sherlock could tell that other patrons had noticed them and discreetly hidden any illicit substances they might have been enjoying, though he had a feeling this wasn’t the drugs squad. The policeman in the mac, a man of medium height with beady dark eyes and greying hair, led the way to the bar. A short conversation with the barman apparently didn’t yield the desired results, so the police made their way into the room behind the bar, only for the waiter to attempt to push past them._

_Like everyone else in the bar now, Reg was watching the scene. “That cop’s pretty fit,” he said appreciatively. “The one in the mac. Touch of a silver fox.”_

_Sherlock scowled as the inspector started to interrogate the waiter. The word “murder” crossed the policeman’s lips, and the waiter paled and shook his head, clearly denying the charge but unwilling to confess to his true crime. The inspector nodded and his sergeant handcuffed the suspect._

_“Idiots. It’s obvious that man didn’t commit the crime they’re accusing him of,” said Sherlock, rising from his seat. “And I can prove it.”_

_“Right,” said Reg with resignation. “You let me know if you and your work ever get a divorce, okay?”_

“I was too preoccupied with Angelo’s case to take up Reg’s offer at the time, but I’ve often thought I should have sex some day,” said Sherlock, unpausing the video. He extinguished his current cigarette and lit another one. “Everyone does it after all. There must be a reason.”

“Beats me,” commented Mycroft.

“Everyone does it because it’s fun.” Janine appeared in John’s chair, wearing the low-cut blue dress she had worn on one of their dates. “And it’s fun because that’s nature’s way of keeping the species going. Find a mate, have sex, and produce offspring. Just ask John and Mary.”

The couple in question appeared in the centre of the living room, cooing over a little baby. Janine walked around them. “Of course, there’s more than that. At its best, it’s an expression of love and companionship. The seal to a union that might last a lifetime.”

John and Mary were replaced with Sherlock’s memory of a black and white photograph from the mid-Seventies; a handsome blonde woman and a slightly younger man, both with some of Sherlock's features, looking down tenderly at another tiny baby.

“Oh, bravo. I think you may well be plumbing new depths of sentimentalism, reminiscing about your own origin,” sneered Mycroft. “Yes, as distasteful as it may be, our parents undoubtedly had sex in order to create us, and have enjoyed what to all intents and purposes has been an exceptionally happy and strong relationship. However, may I remind you that Mummy likes to knit stuffed animals and Father wears comic bowties at Christmas. We do not have to do everything our parents do.”

Mr and Mrs Holmes vanished. Sherlock returned his attention to the laptop, and sighed when he realised that despite another female protagonist joining them, the actors still looked constipated and uncomfortable.

“I think your research is flawed. Let’s face it,” said Janine, “I don’t look like that naked. Nobody does.”

“You’re right. The actresses—” Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft guffaw at that. “—are obviously of Scandinavian descent. I’m sure I can find something more appropriate.”

He typed “naked Asian women” into his browser’s search bar and then rolled his eyes at the variety of ethnic groups the search produced. A search for “naked Pakistani women” was more fruitful. A lot more fruitful. Sherlock stared at the wall of images for a moment. They were definitely from the Indian sub-continent and very much naked. He blinked and closed the laptop lid, swallowing nervously.

“They’re a lot hairier than I expected,” he said finally.

“Yes. All women are,” said Janine. “Real women in the real world. Real men too.”

“Yes, obviously, I know that.” Sherlock stood up and tidied some of the papers on his desk. He looked down at the closed laptop. “I’ve seen plenty of naked bodies.”

“Just not naked ladies lying on beds with an inviting smile?” said Janine with a laugh. “Would you really like to see me like that?”

Sherlock pondered that thought briefly. He pictured Janine in the same pose as one of the women on the pictures. He thought he might enjoy exploring the texture of her skin, the feeling of living, warm flesh instead of the cold cadavers he usually inspected in Molly’s mortuary. The thought was not particularly arousing, but intriguing nonetheless. 

“Janine isn’t your type,” said John. He was sitting in his old chair wearing one of his checked shirts and looking up at Sherlock with an earnest expression. “You don’t want her. You’re just bored.”

“You’re not supposed to be here, John,” said Sherlock tetchily. “I told you to go away.”

“And yet, here I am.” John spread his hands. “Funny how I turn up whenever you think of sex.”

“That’s because you’re the only person I know who is having sex,” grumbled Sherlock. “Enough sex to produce offspring anyway. All the rest are amateurs. Now go away!”

John disappeared. Alone in the living room, Sherlock stared at the empty chair. John’s chair.

_“You’re a doctor,” said Sherlock quietly, putting on his gloves in the doorway of his newly rented flat._

_He had decided some years earlier that he worked better with an assistant. There had been others since Reg, though none had come on his cases on anything more than a very casual basis. An assistant with medical knowledge would be invaluable. He just needed to find out if the man with the psychosomatic limp slumped in one of Mrs Hudson’s mismatched armchairs was up for the challenge._

_“In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”_

_“Yes,” said John. He cleared his throat and pulled himself to his feet, as if trying to stand to attention even though he was leaning uneasily on the cane._

_“Any good?”_

_John straightened up proudly. “Very good.”_

_“Seen a lot of injuries, then.” Sherlock approached him. “Violent deaths.”_

_“Hmm, yes,” said John quietly, nodding._

_“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” It was a gamble, but this was an Army doctor who had seen enough active duty to acquire a psychosomatic limp. Army doctors didn’t usually see active duty. They were a precious commodity that the Army kept well away from danger._

_“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”_

_John’s large eyes had been fixed on him intensely, telling the truth, but he lowered his gaze momentarily as he spoke the last words. A lie. Sherlock’s heart beat a little faster as he played his card, certain now that John wouldn’t refuse._

_“Want to see some more?”_

_“Oh God, yes!”_

“That was years ago,” said Sherlock firmly, shaking his head. “John is married. His wife is expecting a baby. He isn’t coming back.”

He put out his cigarette and grabbed the arms of John’s chair. With some difficulty, he got the bulky chair out through the living room door and carried it upstairs to John’s room. John’s old room. The spare room. Empty, stripped of everything that had been John’s life at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock placed the chair by the unmade bed and sat in it for a moment.

_John was asleep, the heavy lines around his eyes smoothed by the tranquillity of a peaceful dream. Not exactly a handsome man, though reasonably good-looking, Sherlock supposed, with even features that suggested healthy genes; probably the reason he had little trouble obtaining dates even if he struggled to keep the relationships going once they were established._

_Sherlock moved closer. At this hour of the morning, John’s cheeks were covered with stubble, sharp hairs protruding from the pores and pits of his skin. He had once suffered from acne, though apparently never from chicken pox, the only disease Sherlock had ever contracted as a child and which had left its mark on his own face._

_The duvet was pushed down, John’s torso exposed in the grey T-shirt he wore as nightwear with a pair of pyjama bottoms. The T-shirt had ridden up a little in the night, exposing a thin strip of—_

_John’s eyes flew open and he sat up in a panic. Sherlock took a step back. John blinked._

_“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”_

_“John! You need to get dressed,” said Sherlock, remembering the purpose of his presence in John’s room at 6.00 am. “We’re going to Stoke Moran!”_

_“What? Where—”_

_“The case, John,” said Sherlock with exasperation. “Dr Roylott’s place. We need to spend the night there to find out what killed Julia Stoner!”_

_“Right.” John rubbed his face. “Okay. Yeah, that makes so much more sense than you just randomly watching me sleep.”_

“That’s all over now,” said Sherlock. He brushed some crumbs from the chair off his purple shirt and headed back downstairs, closing the door behind him.

“You could always get yourself another flatmate if you really miss the inane conversation,” pointed out Mycroft.

“Oh, shut up!”

Back in his living room, Sherlock stood by the front door and tried to think of something to do while he waited for Janine. There was nothing more to investigate as far as Magnussen was concerned; he had baited the trap and was fairly certain his visits to the drugs den had been noticed by now. If they hadn’t, an anonymous tipoff might be in order. Retrieving the letters should then be a simple matter of contacting Magnussen and hoping that the prospect of holding power over Sherlock would distract him from Lady Smallwood and convince him to hand over the evidence.

“That is quite probably the stupidest plan you’ve ever had,” said Mycroft. “You should stick to detective work instead of trying to be a hero.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero! I’m just being helpful.”

Sherlock pictured himself in Mycroft’s office, standing in front of his desk.

“Yes, I’m sure getting high is very helpful. And having sex.” Mycroft turned around his computer screen to reveal the same pornographic film Sherlock had been watching earlier. 

Lady Smallwood was standing beside Mycroft, staring at Sherlock accusingly.

“One of my colleagues on the Culture, Media and Sport committee has just resigned, Mr Holmes,” she reminded him. She had called him that afternoon, after he came back from the abandoned house, to inform him that Magnussen was stepping up the pressure on the committee to get them off his back. “It will be in the papers within a couple of days. Magnussen threatened to publish details of his disabled daughter’s medical condition.”

Magnussen was standing to one side, watching the three of them and chuckling.

“He is using people’s weaknesses to control them,” said Mycroft. “He preys on people who are different. Maybe you should let him know you’re gay. I’m sure he’d enjoy that. Or say that nothing gets you going. I’m sure ‘Great detective is impotent’ would be a pleasing headline for his publications.”

“I don’t mind being different,” said Sherlock ruefully.

“Oh yes, you do. Deep down inside, you always have,” said Mycroft with disdain. “And the reason is simply that you are not. You want friends, you want people to like you, you fall in love and let them break your heart.”

“No I don’t!”

“You get emotionally involved,” continued Mycroft. “I’m not the lonely one, Sherlock. You want to be like me, but the truth is, you’re ordinary.”

_“…it turns out you’re ordinary. Just like all of them. Oh well.”_

“I’m not ordinary. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being ordinary,” protested Sherlock. There was a loud buzzing noise somewhere, but he ignored it.

“Maybe you’re right,” sneered Mycroft. “Then why not just embrace the truth? You are not Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, the brilliant mind who can solve any crime, detached from human emotions and desires.”

Sherlock shook his head, but Mycroft continued, seeming to grow larger and more authoritative with every syllable.

“You’re just a repressed homosexual who solves crimes when he isn’t getting high. You’re such a Silly Billy.”

  
_“Mummy! Mike called me a Silly Billy!”_

_“It’s_ Mycroft _, you horrible little pipsqueak!”_

_Their mother was busy doing something: cooking, flower arranging, calculating the mathematics for some intricate new knitting or crochet pattern. Whatever the latest hobby was with which she occupied her brilliant mind._

_“Well, you are_ quite _a Silly Billy sometimes, darling,” she teased softly, though she gathered Sherlock into her arms. He leaned against her ample bosom and stuck his tongue out at Mycroft._

_“I don’t want to be Billy anymore,” he whined. “It’s a stupid name.”_

_“We could always call you Sherlock,” said his mother, though he could tell she wasn’t entirely serious. “That would certainly make you stand out at school.”_

_“If he gets to be called Sherlock, will you_ please _call me Mycroft?”_

_“Oh really!” exclaimed their mother, releasing Sherlock and returning to her task. “Billy and Mike are perfectly good names. I don’t know what’s the matter with you boys. Now run along!”_

_Sherlock pouted and went off to play with Redbeard, while Mycroft stormed away with the incoherent grunt of a frustrated teenager._  


“I am not a child anymore, Mycroft!” The buzzing rang out again and Sherlock clapped his hands to his ears. “I am not Billy.” He removed his hands and straightened up. “Now go away and leave me alone!”

“Oh. Bad time?” said Janine.

Mycroft’s office disappeared. Janine was standing in the living room doorway. Sherlock blinked, but Janine didn’t disappear. She gave him an uncertain smile and waved at him as if they were at a great distance and she needed to attract his attention.

“Hi. Mrs Hudson let me in, apparently you couldn’t hear the doorbell.” 

“Oh.” He looked at the small device perched on one of the shelves by the front door. Mrs Hudson had bought it recently after the wired doorbell stopped working, possibly because Sherlock had thrown a dumbbell at it in a fit of boredom a few weeks earlier. “That’s what that noise was. I was busy.”

“Having an argument, apparently,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement as she pretended to look around for the person he’d been arguing with.

Sherlock smiled and waved a dismissive hand. “Hmm, just settling some old scores with my brother. Unresolved childhood issues. He used to break my Lego when I scribbled on his schoolbooks. You have siblings, you know how it goes.”

“Yes. Still haven’t forgiven my sister for stealing my favourite Barbie when I was twelve. We hash that one out about once a month. Usually when I’m in the bath.” Janine laughed. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yes, Mycroft. _Mike,_ ” he added with a little twinge of petulant satisfaction. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard about him. He keeps removing himself from my Wikipedia page.” 

He dismissed Mycroft with a shrug and leaned over to kiss Janine quickly on the lips. She seemed very pleased and kissed him back, wrapping one arm around his neck. Her soft body felt comfortable and warm against his.

“Almost Oedipal, one might say,” said his inner Mycroft.

“Now, would you like a drink?” he offered, stepping away from Janine. “I have a bottle of Pinot if you’d like some wine.”

“That sounds grand! You’ve tidied up, too.” Janine gave him a cheeky smile and sat on the sofa. “And you’re not lounging in the bath. Anyone would think you were actually expecting me this time!”

“Yes, I invi—“ he started, before realising she was joking. He laughed. “Yes, I thought I would make an effort this time.”

“It’s still a bit scuzzy, but definitely an improvement without that chair in the way,” she said, indicating the place where John’s chair had been. 

“Yes. Out with the old, in with the new,” said Sherlock, since ordinary people liked exchanging platitudes. “Anyway, one glass of wine coming up.”

“You’re not seriously going through with this,” exclaimed Mycroft in surprise when Sherlock went into the kitchen and set about pouring the glasses of wine.

Sherlock raised his glass to his imaginary brother and made him disappear. “Yes, I am. Here’s to being ordinary.”

Then, with determination, he carried the two glasses into the living room to join his date.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Janine continue their date, and Sherlock considers becoming ordinary.

“Nice wine,” said Janine appreciatively, leaning over to look at the bottle and perhaps deliberately exposing more of her cleavage in the process.

Sherlock lifted the bottle. “John bought it for one of his dates once; though as I recall, she dumped him before he could serve it to her, and we ended up drinking it together. I assumed it would be suitable.”

“No thanks.” Janine covered her glass with her hand as Sherlock tilted the bottle to pour her some more. She giggled. “I’m anyone’s after a couple of glasses.”

“Right.”

Sherlock put the bottle down again. He had been limiting his own intake; he still had vague memories of throwing up and passing out on someone’s carpet during John’s stag do. He wondered if Janine would enjoy that anecdote. She had already shared a number of similar stories about herself and her female friends which suggested she subscribed to the bizarre Northern European belief that the only good night out was one that ended with you sleeping in your own vomit. He was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t want any more.

“On the other hand, maybe just another half...” she said. Sherlock complied, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes and make a comment on her predictability. Janine sipped the wine and yawned. “Ah sorry. My flatmate’s boyfriend is back in town. You never heard so much noise! Rule number one of having a flatmate is keep quiet when you’re having a shag.”

_Sherlock didn’t usually need to sleep, and when he did, he was oblivious to everything, but on this occasion he was in between cases and lying in bed late at night, mulling over The Woman and her stupid phone. He heard John and his date return from their night out and go straight up to John’s room above his. There were hushed voices and the sound of movement muffled by the carpet, then a lengthy pause during which Sherlock started to drift off to sleep._

_It had been a long time since Sherlock had lived with a sexually active flatmate and he didn’t immediately identify the cause of the rhythmic creaking of John’s bed. Once he did, though, he found himself wide awake and unable to think about anything else._

_After a while, he gave up trying to ignore what he was hearing, and gave in to his impulse to picture the scene. He couldn’t remember what the woman looked like—it wasn’t the same one John had brought home last week, different perfume—so he replaced her with Irene Adler since she was on his mind and he happened to know what she looked like naked. He had seen John sufficiently naked—wrapped in a towel after a bath, in his boxers and t-shirt when Sherlock watched him sleep—to picture him with no clothes on as well. The images were surprisingly satisfying, setting his pulse racing and spreading warmth down his body..._

Sherlock drew himself sharply away from that memory as he felt some of the warmth return. He had felt unusually ashamed of himself afterwards and avoided John for a couple of days. John had apparently put it down to Sherlock being lovelorn over Adler or some such nonsense.

“—then at my cousin Siobhan’s hen night, she was only after telling me that Padraig had married the girl. Well, I said—”

Having ascertained that Janine wasn’t talking about anything important, Sherlock let his mind wander again. The wine made him feel relaxed, rather as he had felt at John’s stag do, before the vomiting but after the pub, when they were lying together on the stairs. The memory gave Sherlock the same warm feeling again and he forced himself to pay attention to Janine.

He stopped short of actually listening to her, but observing her kept his mind focused. She was very tired; there were dark rings under her eyes, and her makeup wasn’t as carefully applied as on their previous dates. And there was something else nagging at the edge of Sherlock awareness. Something was bothering her. He tried to deduce her, but it wasn’t any of usual things like an affair of the heart—her current relationship was going swimmingly well; Sherlock was making sure of that—and he couldn’t think of any particular reason for her to be upset. He’d never really been that good at deducing women.

“Bad day at the office?” he asked tentatively, since that had worked on a previous occasion. 

Janine opened her mouth in surprise. In retrospect, Sherlock realised she had been talking about her mother in Ireland, and was perhaps not expecting a query about her work life in that context.

“No, just tired. I’m honestly thinking about checking into a hotel tonight!” she said lightly. “Anyway, so my Mam says to this woman—”

Not work-related, then. Sherlock decided he didn’t care enough to enquire any further, and topped up their glasses instead. Might as well finish it off.

“…I’ll get the office to myself on Thursday when Magnussen goes to that do.”

“That do?” asked Sherlock, suddenly alert.

“Dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain,” explained Janine. “Big shindig. He sometimes takes me with him, but they’re dead boring, those dinners. He likes to always have someone he trusts in the office when he’s out in the evening in case the American office calls, so I volunteered to do it.”

“You get the place to yourself?”

“With any luck.”

Janine paused while she visibly thought about what to say next, steeling herself to reveal something that she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him. Her gaze swept over the table between them, her lips parted and closed, her fingers fiddled with the paper napkin he had procured.

“Truth is, there is something. It’s not about work. Just I talked to this—friend who has some problems, something she needs to get from someone, and I don’t know whether to help her or—”

Oh great. Another anecdote about one of her many friends and their boring lives. Sherlock tuned her out again and concentrated on the information she had just given him. So Janine would be alone in the office on Thursday while Magnussen went to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain. There was a chance the Smallwood letters might be at Appledore, of course, and Sherlock was unlikely to find out either way beforehand. But if they were in the office, then he could trick Janine into letting him in.

He would just need to get through the security downstairs in the lobby first. He pictured the layout of the building’s lobby, which he had discreetly reconnoitred one Sunday morning when the workers were away and a skeleton staff guarded the largely empty building.

Placing himself by the revolving entrance doors where he had been standing at the time, Sherlock looked around. A keycard was necessary to enter the building without calling the main reception. He could try tailgating someone, as the revolving doors allowed two people at a time to enter, but that might arouse suspicion and he was more likely to get to the lifts up to the top floor if no security guards got antsy. Blagging his way in by sweet-talking one of the building receptionists over the intercom was out for the same reason.

He saw himself stealing a keycard from one of the employees he had identified when he first investigated Magnussen’s staff. He could steal Janine’s right now, of course, but she would know he was the culprit when she found it missing tomorrow morning. So it would be someone else’s keycard. He swiped it at the door and walked in. Once inside the building he looked at the lifts. The keycard would only give him access to the main lifts into the office floors; to reach Magnussen’s private office, he would need to get Janine’s attention.

There was something he could do with the keycard. He tried to concentrate on the information; it was stored somewhere close to Janine. He looked down at her cleavage, exposed by the gap in her blouse, and made the connection.

_“It was his own fault: he put his keycard in with his phone, and you’d think a man who has all the latest tech including those glasses you can read stuff on would know better. Anyway, it scrambled the card and when he tried to get into his lift—the gobshite has his own private lift, can you believe it?—the alarm went off. The receptionist was away from her desk so she didn’t check the video feed and let him in, so Security came rushing around and he wasn’t amused.”_

So that was what he needed to— Sherlock started when the new doorbell rang with a loud, persistent buzz.

“Jesus, that’s a loud doorbell!” exclaimed Janine, hand on her chest as if the sound had given her a fright. The buzzer rang again. “Shouldn’t you answer it?”

“Hmm. Man. Middle-aged. Probably a businessman, which given the time of night and urgency of the ringing probably means a money matter.” Sherlock shook his head. “A three at most. Boring.” 

He turned and reached over the back of his chair to open the door that led onto the stairwell. “Mrs Hudson, tell him to go away. I’m not taking his case!”

“I’m not your receptionist, you know!” called up Mrs Hudson, though she sounded as if she was on her way to answer the door anyway.

Sherlock pushed the kitchen door closed and turned back to Janine, only to find she was on her feet and heading for the living room.

“I have got to see this for myself.” She ran over to the window by Sherlock’s desk and looked out. “You’re only right, too! Middle-aged man in a suit.”

“Thought so,” said Sherlock smugly, coming to join her. “Long ring, excessive force applied to the button. Obvious, really.”

“Obvious?” said Janine, crossing her arms. “Are you after pulling my leg? You actually worked out who he was from how he rang the doorbell?”

Ah. Of course, he was supposed to be normal. Sherlock looked out at the now empty street; the journalist had gone home for the night. He put on a conspiratorial smile.

“I might have worked it out by how he rang the bell. Or maybe he emailed me earlier and I researched him.” It was quite possible that the man had emailed him earlier; Sherlock hadn’t read his email for days. “Don’t tell anyone. I have an international reputation, you know.”

“Hmm, an international reputation, really?” said Janine in a low voice. 

She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her lips tasted of wine. It wasn’t unpleasant; in fact, he could almost picture getting used to this. Sherlock gingerly put his arms around her and lowered his head to kiss her back. She was just the right height. 

“Good kisser, too,” she said appreciatively when they separated a moment later. She ran her finger down his throat, her other arm loosely resting on his shoulder. “You’re quite a dark horse, aren’t you, Sherl?”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me ‘Sherl’ before,” he said. He could feel the clasp of her bra through the thin material of her blouse.

“Well, ‘Sherlock’ is a bit of a mouthful. Why are you called Sherlock anyway?” She was idly stroking the back of his head as she spoke, and he had to resist the urge to close his eyes and relax into her touch. “Wikipedia says your name is William and you only chose Sherlock to make yourself sound more interesting at school.”

Sherlock let go of her. “Oh does it really?”

“Ah.” Janine laughed as Sherlock sat at his desk and pulled the laptop towards him. “Revenge for the revenge for the Lego thing, is it?”

“Hmm. My name is a particularly contentious topic.” 

Sherlock pulled up the lid on his laptop and typed in his password. After a brief pause, the screen flickered back to life, displaying the Google results he had been observing before Janine’s arrival. Sherlock blinked at the images on the screen for a split second and snapped the lid shut again.

“On second thoughts, I can investigate that later.”

“Oh Sherl!” exclaimed Janine with a delighted laugh. She wrapped her arms around his neck again, lowering her cleavage into his line of sight. “You _do_ like to research, don’t you?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked up at her uncertainty. “It’s—it’s the basis of all good detective work.”

“I bet it is.” Janine sat down on his knee and kissed him. “Wanna do some more in-depth research on that particular topic?”

As she pressed her lips to his again, Sherlock pondered that question. It was a topic worth researching—practically everyone did it and it was the direct or indirect motive for the majority of his cases—and relevant to the case in hand.

However, before he could decide whether to take this opportunity, the doorbell rang again. He used it as an excuse to draw away from Janine’s kiss.

“Short ring. Hesitant. Woman with an affair of the heart. Probably drunk, too.”

“Another three?”

“Barely a two.”

Janine kissed the tip of his nose. “Bedroom, then?”

Well, why not? It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do this evening.

“End of the corridor, after the bathroom.” He glared at the doorbell. “I’ll just sort out a couple of things first.”

“Grand.” Janine picked up her handbag and gave him a wide smile. “I’ll see you in bed.”

Sherlock smiled sweetly as Janine went off down the corridor. Then he rolled his eyes and put the doorbell in the fridge. He leaned against it a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. Mildly inebriated as he was, he couldn’t access his Mind Palace to determine what to do. There had been a time when he barely relied on it at all, and only for cases at that, but it had become increasingly useful, especially since he faked his death. He had been alone a lot during those two years.

Instead, he tried to picture what would happen. He would join her in the bedroom. They would shed their clothes as they did in the movies. Once they were naked on the bed, he would mount her like the animal he was by nature. If they used no contraception, she might become pregnant and they would get married, just as John and Mary had done. Within a year, Sherlock could have the one thing most ordinary people aspired to: a family of his own.

Mummy would be so proud.

Of course, he knew you were supposed to marry for love and live happily ever after. Just like his parents. Or John and Mary. But he also knew that some people didn’t; that they lived happy lives with people they loved but were not in love with.

_Mr Trevor adjusted the video camera and cleared his throat. His skin had a strange greenish tinge on the VHS recording; the tape had been used many times before and the recording quality was poor._

_“Victor... I went to see the doctor today and he said I’m getting worse. The next heart attack could be my last. Wants to cart me off to hospital.” He rubbed his cheek wearily. “This business with Hudson hasn’t helped... Anyway, this all made me think I should tell you the truth. I know you and your clever friend Sherlock have been wondering. You’ll have to forgive me for doing it like this, though. I couldn’t tell you face to face...”_

_Sherlock turned to look at Victor, sitting on the bed beside him, to see if he was as thrilled at the prospect of finding out the truth as Sherlock was. Victor didn’t look thrilled, though, which was probably understandable given his father’s recent death, and Sherlock returned his attention to the television._

_“...I want you to know that none of this means I was unhappy with your mother. She was the best wife any man could have and a good mother to you. I was genuinely sad when she died. But you must understand that we were not in love. Her family were pillars of the Establishment, but poor, and I was a very rich young man. Her father was a Liberal counsellor who was only too happy to demonstrate his liberalism by inviting me into his family.”_

_Trevor sighed. “We were content together, and good friends. Perhaps that’s the secret to a long lasting relationship. No drama, no hurt feelings.” He closed his eyes a moment. “But I’ve been in love too. And even though I ended up with a broken heart—” He laughed humourlessly and patted his chest. “—in more ways than one, as it turned out. Even so, I hope some day you’ll love someone the way I did.”_

“Sherl, are you after falling asleep out there?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. A new beginning, a new life, beckoning from his bedroom. Contentment, perhaps. He went in to join Janine.

She had turned on the bedside lamp and was sitting on the bed, still fully clothed although she had removed her shoes.

“Oh, just to be clear. I don’t do whips and chains and all that stuff,” she said seriously. “Just so you know.”

Sherlock smiled, remembering that he was supposed to be normal and charming. “No, neither do I.”

“Right, so The Woman, @TheWhipHand and all that?” asked Janine with a comical look of mock suspicion.

“A client, that’s all.”

“The handcuffs at your best friend’s wedding?”

“Purely a precautionary measure,” said Sherlock, toeing off his own shoes. “I meet a lot of shady characters in my line of work.”

He hesitated before unbuttoning his shirt, but decided to throw caution to the wind. Truth be told, he was secretly quite impressed with himself. He had successfully seduced a woman. A gullible young woman on the rebound from a failed relationship, of course, and Sherlock had never doubted his ability to charm some members of the fairer sex, but he had also never tested to see if it would go this far.

Janine stood up and unbuttoned her own blouse, exposing her lacy bra. It was a good fit, Sherlock noticed, supporting her heavy breasts without putting uncomfortable pressure on the flesh. It was old too, very faintly discoloured under the arms; not enough for any ordinary person to notice, no doubt, but a sign that Janine had hoped for but not expected sex tonight. A woman with a taste for lingerie and who was more confident in the outcome of a date would have purchased something new. Instead she had chosen an attractive set that was also comfortable.

Janine removed her skirt and tights—the latter a further sign that she had expected little to come of this evening—and started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, since he had stopped while he was observing her. She stroked his chest as she uncovered it, gently running her fingers through his sparse chest hair, and Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. He leaned in to kiss her, giving in to the pleasure of being touched, of feeling her warm lips against his, her soft chest pressed against his naked skin. She pushed him onto the bed and lay down beside him, leaning against him.

The last time there had been someone else in this bed, it was Irene. Or was it John?

“No, I was never in your bed.”

“John!” Sherlock had meant to admonish the imaginary voice in his head, but realised he had said that out loud.

Janine looked mildly surprised. “John?”

“Sorry, I thought I heard my phone. His ring tone.” Sherlock drew himself up on one arm. “Not, um, not really what I meant to say.”

“Not what I expected to hear,” said Janine, though she just kissed him and laughed. “If you’re going off to check your phone, you can get me a drink.” She yawned. “Ah, feck it. Sorry. I am going to murder my roommate when I get home. Don’t be surprised if I fall asleep on you!” She waggled her finger at him. “No taking advantage of me if I do, though.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Sherlock shook off his half removed shirt and, giving Janine a reassuring smile, he headed out into the kitchen. He braced himself on the counter for a moment, then poured out a glass of wine that he downed in one go.

“You can’t do this,” said John’s voice.

“Because it’s unethical?” scoffed Sherlock ruefully.

“You know why.”

Sherlock pictured John as he had been when they were living together: checked shirts and oatmeal Aran jumpers, disapproving, friendly, ordinary and extraordinary all at the same time. An ordinary man with the instincts of a killer.

The man who had saved him so many times, and in so many ways.

“Yes, I do.”

Dismissing his thoughts, Sherlock mixed Janine’s drink and went back to the bedroom, putting on a seductive smile as he crossed the threshold. She was lying on her side in her underwear, the very model of what most men desired.

“You look lovely,” he said, because he knew she’d appreciate the compliment. And because it was probably true.

“Ah, you’re not too bad yourself. Thanks.”

She leaned up and took the glass. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. He watched her carefully as she drank and quickly removed the glass from her hand as she sank back onto the pillows, falling into a deep sleep. He pulled the covers over her and turned the light off, slipping out of the room.

“Got to admit that’s original. Drugging a woman to _avoid_ having sex with her.”

Sherlock said nothing. He pulled his street clothes out from their hiding place under the sink and put them on, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Pulling up his hood, he pocketed his phone and headed out.


	13. Chapter 13

Janine was lying on Sherlock’s bed, entirely naked, her dark hair fanned out on his pillows and an inviting smile on her lips. Sherlock stripped off, dropping his clothes on the floor, and kneeled on the bed beside her. She ran her hand up his leg, brushing the hairs up the wrong way, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

“It’s not difficult,” said John. “It’s just human nature, after all.”

“Yes, human nature,” scoffed Mycroft. “Something ordinary people do.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled back at Janine. He lowered himself on top of her, pressing their lips together as she wrapped her legs around his hips. He lifted his head and looked up at John, who was standing by the bed, fully clothed; checked shirt, worn jeans, nondescript sneakers.

“See, it’s not difficult,” said John with a smile. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“I wish you’d waited for me, John,” said Sherlock wistfully. “I was always going to come back.”

Mary embraced John from behind, leaning her face on his shoulder. “You left it too late.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock sadly.

John smiled at Mary. “Well, goodbye, Sherlock.”

The Watsons turned their backs on him and walked away down the garden path at his parents’ house. It was a warm summer’s day and the birds were singing, but even though he was fully clothed again, Sherlock felt cold, sitting alone on the bench beside the greenhouse where Mummy kept her horticultural experiments. 

“John!” called out Sherlock, hoping that maybe he could still get him to come back.

John didn’t hear him, so he called again, but the only response was a familiar tune—Mendelsohn?—that rang in his brain and he couldn’t—

“Oi, shut up and turn that thing off!”

Startled, Sherlock woke up and blinked at the cracked ceiling in confusion. Where was John? For that matter, where was Mummy’s greenhouse? It took him a moment to realise he had been dreaming and remember where he was. He sat up groggily and looked around. Something to do with a case? Oh, Magnussen. Drugs. Right.

“Eh, leave ’im,” said Wiggins. “He’s had a bad dream, that’s all.”

His phone was ringing. That was the annoying sound that had woken him. He fumbled with the phone, trying to silence it, and accidentally swiped it the wrong way and picked up the call.

"Hi, Sherl! It’s me," said Janine cheerfully. He could hear her voice clearly even before he held the phone to his ear. “Sorry, you working?”

“Ye-es.” Sherlock looked around at the drug addicts surrounding him. One of them, a skinny man covered in tattoos, gave him a vacant look before resuming his usual habit of repeatedly turning his lighter on and off.

“‘Working’ is a pretty loose description of what you’ve been doing all night,” said Mycroft, incongruously placed at the end of Sherlock's mattress.

Sherlock frowned; he had no idea how long he had been in the derelict house, but it was daylight outside and he could feel stubble on his jaw. He ran his fingers over the bristles, exploring the unfamiliar sensation.

“Oh, I won’t keep you, then,” said Janine. “Listen, I had a great evening last night and, well, I had a good sleep in your bed too. Your flat is so quiet! Listen, I was wondering if I could come around tonight too? My flatmate and her boyfriend will be away from next week, thank God. Backpacking in Malaysia. Not my idea of fun; give me a luxury hotel anytime! Things people do for love. Anyway, I thought if you didn’t mind...”

“Didn’t you drug her last night?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. Janine had apparently not noticed.

Mycroft shook his head disdainfully. “Goldfish. So easy to fool. You could offer to marry her and she’d believe you.”

“Grand! I’ll bring a bottle of wine. We can have another quiet night in and—” She lowered her voice flirtatiously. “—maybe explore some of that ‘research’ you’ve been doing for real this time.”

“Um...” A vivid image of Janine lying naked on his bed like the girls in his research came to mind and Sherlock coughed.

“See you about eight o’clock, yeah?”

"Well..." Sherlock couldn’t remember agreeing to let her come over.

“The worst that can happen is that she’ll proposition you again,” said Mycroft, “and you can avoid that easily enough. The letters might be at Magnussen’s office tomorrow night, in which case you won’t need her anymore. But you still need her now."

"Yes, lovely," said Sherlock. “See you tonight.”

Janine said something about letting him get back to work and rang off. Sherlock stared at the phone for a moment, then went outside to relieve himself. He caught sight of his reflection in a broken window. He observed it dispassionately; he had always prided himself on his ability to blend in when required without using any preposterous disguises, but he had to admit his unshaven face and greasy hair were a good complement to his dirty street clothes. He did look like a junkie in need of a fix. The thought made him smile with satisfaction.

“Who’s it for, though?” asked Lestrade, lighting a cigarette beside him. “Wiggins knows who you are, and he does home deliveries. The press didn’t bite. There’s no need to be here in a disguise.” He waved at the derelict buildings surrounding the courtyard they were in. “You never hung out in places like this even when you were doing it on a regular basis. You were never like that kid.”

Sherlock watched the young man who lived next to John walk across the courtyard and bang on the front door. He didn’t even notice Sherlock standing by the graphitied wall of the building.

“I wonder if John knows his neighbour is a drug addict,” continued Lestrade. “He’ll probably stage an intervention when he finds out. Try to save the boy. That’s the difference between you two. You solve the crime. John saves the life.”

“Yes, John’s good at saving people,” agreed Sherlock.

_“That,” said John, “was amazing.”_

_Sherlock stared at him a moment, uncharacteristically lost for words. It had been years since anyone admired his work so openly. The best he had been able to get recently was grudging thanks from Lestrade and a flow of abuse from everyone else. Not that he let the abuse get to him; if anything, it had made him more vicious and aloof, less inclined to care about the rest of humanity and what they thought of him. It made him stronger, Mycroft said, though Sherlock didn’t feel it made him any happier._

_“Do you think so?” he said finally, wondering if he had heard John correctly._

_“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”_

_Sherlock tried his best not to give any sign of the warm feeling rising in his chest. “That’s not what people normally say.”_

_“What do people normally say?” asked John._

_“‘Piss off’!”_

“Nice day, innit?”

Wiggins was standing in the doorway after letting the boy in. Looking up, Sherlock could see bright sunshine on the top floor of the building; only a sliver penetrated into one corner of the narrow courtyard, by the door. Grinning, Wiggins sat down on a rolled up carpet in the tiny patch of sunshine. He lit a cigarette and gestured for Sherlock to join him. With nothing better to do, Sherlock sat on the carpet and leaned back on the mattress propped against the wall.

"I've figured it out, you know,” said Wiggins. “I’ve been asking myself since you came here, but I think I’ve got it now. The real reason you come here. I've changed my mind. It isn't for a case.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tuned Wiggins out as the man proceeded to give his theory. He wondered if John still thought he was amazing. He was probably too busy thinking about his wife and baby to care about Sherlock anymore. There had been no further communication since the email during the honeymoon and the one phone call two weeks ago.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lestrade. “Other people admired you before John came along, like Victor and Reg.”

“Victor was lonely and Reg just fancied me,” said Sherlock shortly.

Wiggins’ voice broke momentarily into his thoughts, though it was very distant. “Victor and Reg?”

“They weren’t really friends.”

Lestrade shrugged. “What about Mrs Hudson? Or what about me? Moriarty picked all three of us, and we were the first in your mind too when he said he was targeting all your friends. John isn’t your only friend. I think you’re a great detective too.”

_“He said ‘he’s a great man and some day, if we’re very lucky, he’ll be a good one’.”_

_Sherlock looked up from his coffee. He had been mentally reconstructing the chemical compound they had been exposed to at Baskerville and trying not to think about his last conversation with Mycroft. “Who?”_

_“Lestrade.”_

_“Lestrade is a great man?”_

_John looked exasperated. He folded his newspaper. “No, you’re a great man, doofus. You haven’t listened to a word I said, have you?”_

_“Lestrade thinks I’m a great man.”_

_“Yes. So do I,” said John, with that unselfconscious look of admiration that warmed Sherlock’s heart and made him want to… do something, though he didn’t know what. “We all do. But you need to work on being a good man.”_

_“Would you miss me if I was gone?” asked Sherlock, because though he told himself everything was going to be all right, even then, he had a suspicion that it wouldn’t be._

_John laughed. “Nah, I’m sure we’d survive. Plenty of big-headed egomaniacs out there who like to solve mysteries for a hobby.”_

“You knew that was a lie,” said Lestrade. “But you left anyway. Now you need to find someone else.”

Sherlock extinguished his cigarette and let Wiggins’s voice tune back in again to check if he was talking about anything important.

“…Nobody would be stupid enough to do this many drugs for a case,” said Wiggins.

“I like drugs," Sherlock pointed out. "And I do whatever is necessary for a case. I once nearly took a poisoned capsule. Well, I didn’t think it was the poisoned one, but it might have been. The only reason I didn’t take it was that I was interrupted.”

  
_“Still the addict,” said the cabbie. Sherlock was inspecting the capsule, trying to work out if he could deduce whether or not it contained poison, and paid little attention to what the man said. “But this..._ this _is what you’re really addicted to, innit? You’d do anything, anything at all to stop being bored.”_

_The cabbie was stalling. This couldn’t be the poisoned capsule or he would be eager for Sherlock to take it. Only one way to find out; Sherlock moved the pill towards his mouth and the cabbie mirrored his movement._

_“You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?”_

_The loud report of a gunshot rang through the air and the cabbie fell back onto the floor. Sherlock dropped the pill in shock. He slid over the desk behind him to get to the window. There was a clear bullet hole in the glass and the window in the building opposite was open. The mystery of how the windowpane hadn’t shattered tugged at Sherlock’s inquisitive instincts for a split second._

_Whoever had done this was an amazing shot. And they had quite possibly saved Sherlock’s life. Sherlock didn’t think anybody other than Mycroft had ever tried to save his life before._   


Wiggins blew out a long plume of smoke and smiled at Sherlock knowingly. “Nah, I know a broken heart when I see one.”

“That’s your theory?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m here because of a broken heart?”

“Yeah.”

_I’ll burn the heart out of you._

“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” said Sherlock calmly, though his stomach churned inexplicably.

_But we both know that’s not quite true._

“Most powerful feeling in the world, love, when it grips you, innit?” said Wiggins, who was apparently in a philosophical mood. “Ain’t nothing like it and ain’t no living without it.”

“Shame the same doesn’t apply to grammar.” Sherlock scowled at him. “Love is a weakness that makes people do irrational things.”

_“When I first came to London, I was alone. Pretty lonely, in fact.” Trevor ran his hand on his forehead, obscuring his eyes for a moment. “One night, I went to a club and I saw— I saw the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Gloria Scott. A vision of loveliness in a sequin-covered gown and a feather boa. Maybe I’ll show you a photograph some time. I still have one somewhere._

_“Gloria’s real name was James Armitage. We met up the next day and... Well, we started a relationship. God, I loved him. You have no idea what it’s like to be in love with someone who loves you back. We were even crazy enough to get our initials tattooed on our arms. I had mine removed later. It’s funny; your mother lived with me for fifteen years and never once asked about the scar, but your clever friend Sherlock noticed it immediately and worked out what it meant. By the way, tell him I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”_

_“It was only a kiss,” said Sherlock. He said nothing more when he noticed the horrified look on his best friend’s face._

_“Those months were the happiest of my life,” continued Trevor on screen. “In the end, though, I broke up with James. I was ambitious. I wanted to progress my career and join the Establishment, and in those days, it was hard enough when you were an outsider, let alone if you were gay. Let alone if your other half was a drag queen with a drug habit. So I stayed in the closet and I left James. Eventually, I married your mother and got everything I had ever wished for: a successful career, a beautiful house, a wonderful, healthy son._

_“James… I broke his heart. He’d always been a recreational drug user, but it became a habit. He contacted me after a few years, when you were about five years old. He needed money.” Trevor lowered his eyes. “I couldn’t help it. I still loved him. I felt so guilty for leaving him. We started an affair and for a while, it was all right. It was never the same again, because I was married and I had you. But it was… when we were together, we were happy. I was terrified someone would find out and I would lose everything._

_“Then one night when I was with him, he had a seizure and…” Trevor paused, his eyes unfocused. “He died. Too many drugs, a faulty batch, a medical condition, I don’t know. I panicked. I called Beddoes, my secretary, and then I called Hudson. I’d met him once or twice. He was the bouncer at the nightclub James worked at. I knew he supplied James with drugs and I thought he’d know what to do. It's amazing what two clever, unscrupulous men can achieve. I don't know what they did—Beddoes bundled me into a cab as soon as he arrived—but though I have often checked the papers and expected a knock on the door, I never heard another word about James. I thought it was all behind me, that you would never learn what I had done. Until Hudson turned up a few weeks ago.”_

“I don’t fall in love,” said Sherlock confidently. “And I’m certainly not doing this because anyone I know has got married.” He threw away the butt of his cigarette and stood up. He pulled out some money. “Right now, all I need is another fix.”

“Well, okay. Customer’s always right,” said Wiggins with a good-natured laugh.

They went back to the makeshift lab and Sherlock entertained himself for a while concocting the perfect mixture of heroin and morphine. He reckoned he would be able to get a couple of trips on it, enough to keep him busy until it was time to go home and face another date with Janine that night. Wiggins watched him, sometimes asking questions and expressing admiration for Sherlock’s understanding of the effects of each drug and how to time their actions for maximum effectiveness.

“See, you don’t need John,” pointed out Lestrade while Sherlock was loading the needle.

“No, I don’t need John,” agreed Sherlock.

“Who’s John again?” asked Wiggins.

“Someone I used to know.”

Standing in the corner of the room, John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock a dirty look. “Oh, that’s charming.”

“You’re the one who got married,” said Sherlock in a sing-song voice.

John shrugged. “You’re the one who left first.”

Wiggins looked around but didn’t ask who Sherlock was talking to. “Right. The guy you used to live with, who got married. Can’t say I even remember what he looks like. Wait, he’s not the one who broke your heart, is he?”

“Not broken-hearted, so no.” Sherlock lowered his eyes from John’s disapproving glare and inserted the needle. “I had no choice. Mycroft and I agreed it was the best way to beat Moriarty if it turned out he really wanted me dead.”

“You didn’t have to listen to me,” said Mycroft. “And you could have told John the truth after the funeral.”

“He couldn’t even tell me Irene was alive with a straight face. He would have blown my cover the minute anyone asked him about me.” Sherlock looked at Mary; she smiled back and rubbed her rounded belly. “It’s all right, anyway. He got what he really wanted in the end.”

Mary took John’s hand. “You broke his heart,” she said softly. “But I fixed it.”

“I know,” said Sherlock. His throat felt tight. “Thank you.”

“I told you I’d burn your heart out,” said Moriarty, casually eating a red apple. “Mission accomplished.”

“’s all right, I’ll look after too, mate,” said Wiggins. “Come on, over here.”

Sherlock thought Moriarty couldn’t possibly have planned this. But maybe he had. Moriarty was very clever and ruthless enough. He’d probably never been in love. Not the kind of love where you would do anything to make the person happy, even if it meant you couldn’t be with them.

Then on the other hand, maybe the universe was lazy just this once. Stupid universe.

“The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth,” said John. “Look at me.”

That didn’t make sense, but Sherlock was just lucid enough to realise he was still asleep. Or maybe only half asleep. He opened his eyes blearily. He didn’t remember lying down on a map with the rest of the waifs in the drugs den.

“Do you think I know a lot of people here? Hey, all right?”

That really did sound like John. Sherlock frowned; he didn’t usually imagine people when he was high, and he was pretty certain he wasn’t dreaming anymore. He turned over and propped himself up on one elbow. It was definitely John. He was holding up his neighbour, who was lying on the mat next to Sherlock’s, and seemed to be assessing his condition. 

He was saving the boy, exactly as Sherlock had imagined he would when he found out what was happening. The thought warmed Sherlock’s heart.

“Ah, hello, John,” said Sherlock. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

John turned to stare at him. He seemed bewildered, so Sherlock pulled back his hood in case he didn’t recognise him. He peered at John as he tried to piece together what was happening. John could have taken care of the boy when they were in their neighbouring homes, so why was John here in the derelict house?

“Did you come for me, too?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at 221B after meeting John in the drugs den, Sherlock takes a bath and Janine joins him.

Sherlock lay down in the bathtub and turned the taps off. He half wished he hadn’t made his presence known in the abandoned house; John would have left with his neighbour, Mycroft wouldn’t have been called, Mycroft would not be about to call their parents. Nobody would have known about the drugs, let alone John, Mary and Molly.

_“Well? Is he clean?” asked John when Molly had finished examining the urine sample Sherlock had provided._

_Molly threw her gloves down angrily. “Clean?”_

_She walked over to Sherlock, and before he had time to wonder what she intended to do, slapped him across the face; twice with her right hand and then again with the left. No ring on the left—interesting._

_Sherlock winced; he had been punched in the face a few times, usually in the middle of a fight, and once when he had asked John to add some credibility to the cover story he had planned for Irene Adler. But being slapped, and by a mild-mannered friend like Molly, what’s more, was a novel experience._

_“How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?” exclaimed Molly, her voice trembling with emotion. “And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you’re sorry!”_

He had said no such thing, of course, because this was for a case and therefore entirely justified. But their collective disappointment still made him feel very mildly ashamed.

“No, you’re not,” scoffed Mycroft. “You wanted John to find you there. Why else would you have picked the same shooting gallery his next door neighbour uses?”

“It was conveniently located,” shrugged Sherlock.

“You’re such a drama queen,” said Mary. “Were you hoping he would save you and abandon his wife when he saw what you’d become?”

“Now there’s a ridiculous thought,” mumbled Sherlock, keeping his voice down when he realised that John, whom he had left in the living room, appeared to be moving down the corridor towards Sherlock’s bedroom. 

At the same time, he could hear movement inside his room. The bathtub was along the wall opposite the glazed door between Sherlock’s bedroom and the bathroom; looking to his right, Sherlock could faintly see Janine’s outline in his room.

Behind the frosted door, Janine appeared to be getting dressed; or at least putting on some kind of top. She walked over to the door that opened onto the corridor just as John’s weight made a floorboard creak almost imperceptibly outside the bathroom door.

“Oh, John, hi!” he heard her say. She laughed. “How are you?”

“Janine?” John sounded surprised.

“Sorry. Not dressed,” she said.

“Why did she stay?” asked Mary. “She must have realised you weren’t coming back last night.”

Sherlock tried to remember his conversation with Janine the previous day.

_“I had a great evening last night and, well, I had a good sleep in your bed too. Your flat is so quiet! Listen, I was wondering if I could come around tonight too?”_

“I very much doubt she stayed here on her own because she wanted a good night’s sleep,” said Mycroft. “On the other hand, she must have been asleep while Anderson and the others were nosing around or she would have come out to see what they were up to.”

“Or she might have been hiding,” said Mary. “She knows you sometimes works on dangerous cases. She may have thought someone was after you and she was better off staying hidden.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t find her,” said Mycroft. “You’d never have heard the end of it.”

John and Janine had moved away from the corridor so Sherlock allowed himself a spoken response. “Oh, I’m sure I could have handled it.”

_“If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me,” said Mycroft in a menacing tone._

_Having spent all his life ignoring his brother’s threats, Sherlock was unconcerned. “Okay. I’ll let you know if I notice.” He walked over to the kitchen door. “Er, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah.” He opened the door and indicated the way out. “Bye-bye.”_

_Mycroft appeared to be leaving, but turned to face Sherlock in the doorway. “Unwise, brother mine.”_

_Sherlock remembered Mycroft’s reaction to the whole Hudson affair. The drugs were still coursing through his veins, making him impulsive and unrestrained. Twisting Mycroft’s arm behind his back, he pushed him face first against the wall by the kitchen door. Mycroft let out a cry of frustration. Or maybe of pain. Sherlock didn’t really care._

_“Brother mine, don’t appal me when I’m high,” breathed Sherlock._

Sherlock didn’t have time to ponder any further thoughts. The bathroom door by his head opened—he had evidently forgotten to lock it—and Janine walked in.

“Morning. Is there room for a little one?” she said loudly, closing the door behind her.

She gave Sherlock an affectionate squeeze on the nape of the neck as she passed. Startled, Sherlock laughed at the ticklish sensation and sat up in the tub, splashing bathwater on the floor. Janine giggled.

“Morning,” said Sherlock in a friendly tone, though he kept his knees up to cover his crotch. She had expressed alarm the last time she had seen him naked. People were funny about these things.

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen a floating willy before. I just needed a wee,” said Janine, pulling her knickers down and sitting on the toilet. The shirt she was wearing—a man’s shirt, but not one of Sherlock’s—concealed her body down to her thighs. “I knew you’d be ages and I’m bursting.”

Sherlock was at a loss why Janine was being so friendly. Aside from their brief phone conversation the previous day, the last time they had spoken, he had drugged her and abandoned her in his bed. He was amazed she hadn’t apparently noticed. 

“On the other hand, John didn’t notice when you drugged him for a whole day,” said Mycroft, “so it isn’t unheard of.”

Since she didn’t seem bothered by his nudity, Sherlock reached for the shampoo bottle perched on the window ledge to his left and started to wash his hair.

“Oh, I must get out of this job,” said Janine with a sigh, pulling a length of toilet paper from the roll. “You know that politician I told you about, the one Magnussen had dinner with the other day? He’s resigned. Charges of corruption. I’m sure Magnussen pulled the strings on that one. Apparently, it’ll be all over the papers tonight. Poor man.”

“There are worse things than being in the papers,” remarked Sherlock, lathering his hair. Not bothering to keep his knees closed, he dipped backward into the bath to rinse off the shampoo.

When Sherlock rose from the water again, the toilet was flushing and Janine was standing by the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. She was looking at him appraisingly.

“D’you mind being famous?” she asked. “Must be a bit of a drag, all that attention, the press and that.”

Sherlock soaped his legs. “No, not really. I just ignore it. I’m a fraud, I’m a hero, I’m gay, I’m asexual, I’m having it off with insert-person-of-the-week. My mother gets a bit worked up about it sometimes, at least when it’s negative. But it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Janine smiled sweetly. “Right. I thought as much.” She looked him over as he lay in the bath, naked and half covered in soapsuds. “Ah, look at you, you gorgeous thing. I wish I could join you in there.”

“That’s physically impossible. The bathtub isn’t even long enough for me to stretch my legs, let alone for two people. And you’re not a small woman.”

“You sweet talker, you,” laughed Janine. “Don’t worry, I had a bath with one of my exes once and it was very awkward and uncomfortable. We ended up relocating to the bedroom. Lot more comfortable.” She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I can demonstrate when you get out, if you like.”

“I need to talk to John. He’s going to help me with the case,” added Sherlock, feeling a thrill at the thought.

_“It’s for a case, you said?”_

_“Yep.”_

_“What sort of case?” asked John cautiously._

_Sherlock tried not to show his feeling of triumph; he knew that tone well. “Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in.”_

_“You trying to put me off?”_

_“God, no.” Sherlock put his hand on the knob of the bathroom door and turned back to look at John. “Trying to recruit you.” ___

“I know. You need to talk to him.” Janine playfully ruffled Sherlock’s wet hair and wiped her hand on the towel. “I’ll see you in a minute, lover boy. We’ll give John something to tell Mary, yeah? This should cheer her up a bit.”

With a bright smile, she left the room by the connecting door to his bedroom.

“She’s up to something,” said Mary.

“She’s too besotted with you to be up to anything,” said Mycroft.

“Wrapped around my finger.” Sherlock chuckled. “Who said women weren’t my area? I think this is going to be a good day.”

Of course, fourteen hours later, he was lying in hospital with a bullet in his stomach. Even Sherlock Holmes could be wrong sometimes.


	15. Chapter 15

“Women _really_ aren’t your area, are they?”

Sherlock knew Moriarty wasn’t really there, though he’d given up trying to distinguish his real visitors from the imaginary ones. All he cared about right now was that the drugs were wearing off and he was going to be in a lot of pain when they finally did.

“Didn’t know Irene was playing you to get to Mycroft. Didn’t know Janine was using you for a story. Didn’t know Mary was going to shoot you,” chanted Moriarty, ticking off each point on his fingers. “You know, for a detective with an international reputation, you’re a bit of an eejit, aren’t you? I’d understand it if you were distracted because you were thinking about shagging them. That’s what guys normally do. But no, you just underestimate them.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

The pain was still distant, but just present enough to keep him awake now he was conscious again. He shifted into a more comfortable position, wincing when it twisted the torn muscles in his abdomen.

Moriarty pointed at Sherlock’s head. “You should have listened to me when we were in there.”

  
_“You’re gonna love being dead, Sherlock,” said Moriarty, looking down at Sherlock, supine on the imaginary cell floor. “No-one_ ever _bothers you.”_  


“But then you thought about poor little Johnny. Your damsel in distress. That’s quite a crush you’ve got there. Bringing you back from the dead and all.”

“The doctors had removed the bullet. I was getting better,” murmured Sherlock. “It had nothing to do with John.”

He pictured the scene he had imagined in the hospital: the doctors leaving his side as he flatlined, then turning around in surprise as he miraculously came back to life at the thought of John being in danger. In reality, of course, the doctors had continued to try everything until his heart started beating again.

“Reality. So unromantic, don’t you think?” scoffed Moriarty.

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of jangling keys, followed by the successive clicks of the two locks on the door. It opened a crack, a sliver of yellow light from the landing spilling onto the carpet. The sliver widened and then got lost in a dim energy-saving glow as the main light was turned on with a sharp click.

“Jesus wept! Sherlock!” exclaimed Janine, her hand on her chest. She stared at him, still standing in the doorway. “What the feck are you doing here, you loon! You’re supposed to be in hospital!”

“I got bored.” Sherlock blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the light as it gradually brightened. Old bulb. Would probably need changing in two or three weeks. “Shut the door.”

Janine did as she was told, closing the door behind her. “Do you need me to call an ambulance to take you back? You look terrible!”

“You sweet talker, you. You think I escaped from the hospital and came all the way here so you could,” he paused, “send me back?” 

“Ah, right. No.” Janine sat on the sofa opposite Sherlock, her handbag in her lap. “How long have you been sitting in the dark there waiting for me to come home?” she asked with a hint of amusement.

Sherlock half smiled. “I don’t know. I fell asleep. I thought I’d come and say goodbye.” He pointed at the boxes around the living room. “I didn’t think you would be moving this fast.”

“Vacant possession. And I paid cash. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been paid!” She picked up the Sunday Mirror with her face on the cover. “People really lap this stuff up. Even the stuff I completely made up. _Especially_ the stuff I made up.”

“I suppose that was your plan from the start,” said Sherlock, forgetting about the impending pain as he warmed to the conversation. “Get to know John’s ‘famous friend’ and use me as an escape route from your job?”

“Nah, I knew you needed me for a case so I thought I was helping you. And the snogging was nice when you got into it.” She grinned at him. “Only then you kept pretending it was real, which was kind of confusing and also insulting, you know, when I knew you needed me for something important. John’s therapist is right; you have big trust issues, mister!”

Sherlock was baffled by the reference to John’s therapist; despite his advice when they first met, John had persevered with the same one, and she was rubbish in Sherlock’s opinion. The thought that she was psychoanalysing Sherlock by proxy was disturbing. He assumed Mary was the source of her information, and that thought didn’t make him feel any better.

“You might underestimate them, but women can see right through you,” said Moriarty.

“But then you actually went and _drugged_ me to get out of shagging me!” continued Janine with a flash of anger. “I mean, kudos for doing it because you _didn’t_ want sex. That’s original. But when I woke up the next day, I thought ‘There’s no way the fecker is getting away with this!’ So that morning, I called one of the girls who used to do PR for Magnussen and we came up with a plan.”

“She did a good job,” said Sherlock appreciatively, looking down at the small stack of newspapers on the nearest box. “I suppose it helped that you had a good nose around my flat while I was out. Lots of photographs and little details to add to your credibility.” 

“And I do know what you look like naked,” said Janine with a giggle. “Of course, when the story hit the news, I had to spend an hour explaining to my mam that it wasn’t real. I think she already had the church booked for us!”

_“Why didn’t you tell me!”_

_Sherlock hastily hid the mobile phone he had been using to plot his escape from hospital under the covers. “Oh, hello, Mummy.”_

_“You know you can tell me everything,” chided his mother, manoeuvring her ample frame into the room and onto the single visitor’s chair. “You should have told me!”_

_“Told you?” prompted Sherlock, trying frantically to work out how his mother knew about Mary._

_It didn’t make sense. Magnussen was keeping quiet to use Mary’s secret against her and the police surely weren’t competent enough to work it out after both Magnussen and Sherlock told them he was shot by a masked male burglar. But maybe Mycroft knew— Sherlock felt a moment of panic at the thought. Their sibling rivalry notwithstanding, Sherlock was certain that anyone who harmed him this severely and was careless enough to let Mycroft know about it would end up at the bottom of the Thames. But Mycroft still wouldn’t tell their mother._

_“Yes, you should have told us,” agreed his father with that smile that usually presaged some embarrassing dad joke or schoolboy innuendo. “She sounds like a lovely girl.”_

_That didn’t seem like a description his father would attribute to the woman who had shot his son; Sherlock relaxed a little._

_“A ‘lovely girl’ who splashed our son’s sex life all over the papers! It’s like the suicide thing all over again at the Bridge club,” said Mummy impatiently, though she leaned towards Sherlock and squeezed his hand. “But Father’s right. We saw her on television and she does seem a lovely girl, despite all this kiss and tell nonsense. When you’re done with this little spat in the papers and it’s all blown over, you should introduce us.”_

“I spent several minutes this very afternoon convincing my parents that I could not, in fact, ‘beg you to take me back’,” explained Sherlock. He frowned. “I never understand my parents’ preoccupation with Mycroft or myself having a girlfriend.”

“It’s just the two of you, right? I mean you’re the only children they have. And you’re both single; Mycroft doesn’t have a girlfriend either?”

“No, he’s like me. He has better things to do with his time,” said Sherlock, not sure what she was getting at. “I don’t see why our parents worry about it.”

Janine opened her mouth as if to say something but then closed it again. She paused for a moment before speaking. “You’re a clever guy, I’ll let you work it out. So, tell me. Why are you _really_ here when you should be in hospital?”

“Oh, that. I need your flatmate’s projector.”

Janine looked up at the said projector, a surprisingly powerful model sitting on a shelf on the wall behind her. “Her projector.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gave her his most reasonable smile. “I'm going to put on a show for a friend.”

“Right. Because that’s always what people do when they break out of hospital.”

He kept his expression neutral. “I’m not people. I wouldn’t know.”

“Who’s the friend?” Janine frowned suspiciously.

“Oh, are you going to tell her about me?” asked Mary, draped in the black stole Sherlock had imagined when he was in hospital. “That should be interesting.”

“There are essentially two possibilities here,” said Mycroft. “Either Janine knows about Mary’s deception, in which case she may also know Mary was there that night and was the one who shot you. Or she doesn’t know and telling her anything will enlarge the circle of people who know Mary’s secret, whatever that is, and might put her in greater danger. You need to decide which is more likely to be true. Does Janine know about Mary and Magnussen or not?”

Moriarty was sprawled out on the sofa beside Janine. “Is she clueless, completely oblivious to Mary’s secret identity? Or are you the clueless one?”

“Okay,” said Janine when Sherlock didn’t answer. She put her handbag down and stood on the sofa to pull the projector from its stand. “You promise you’ll get it back here before my flatmate comes back from her holiday, right? I’ll have to give her my new address so she can send me my post, so I’d rather she didn't make me buy her a new one. Her boyfriend got this thing from his job. He does art installations, you know, projecting stuff on buildings and that. It probably cost a fortune.”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock assured her, though he was still in deep thought, planning the evening ahead.

“If even you didn’t spot that Mary was lying, beyond a subconscious clue,” pointed out Mycroft, “it’s very unlikely that Janine will know anything about it either.”

Moriarty grinned at him. “Your call, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be the clever one, remember?”

_“It won’t be easy to lie to her,” said Janine, leaning back on the sofa at 221B after their second kiss. “We normally tell each other everything.”_

“We had loads of normal ones at work, you know,” said Janine, fiddling with the wires at the back of the projector. “If you’d told me before, I’d have taken one when I left. You could have kept it.”

“I could hardly condone you stealing from your former employer,” said Sherlock with amusement. He observed her keenly. “Even though you seemed to have a lax attitude to letting people into his office after hours. And by people, I don’t just mean myself.”

Janine paused in what she was doing. She turned to give him a worried look. 

“Mary was there that evening,” said Sherlock. He remembered standing in Magnussen’s office, inhaling the familiar but unidentified scent in the air. “I recognised her perfume.”

Janine disconnected the projector and sat down again, holding it in her lap. “I didn’t know she was there. I swear to God, Sherlock, I wouldn’t have let you in if I’d known that was the night she’d come! I thought— I mean what the feck were you doing there anyway?”

“Oh, trying to retrieve an item for a client,” said Sherlock, though his mind was piecing together the picture as he spoke. “I assume Mary was trying to do something similar. Only I gather she was a little more trusting and actually enlisted your help after befriending you to get at your employer.”

_“I talked to this—friend who has some problems,” said Janine during their romantic dinner in his kitchen, “something she needs to get from someone, and I don’t know whether to help her or—”_

“See, this is what you get when you don’t listen to women,” said Mary, waggling her finger at him sternly.

“This has been some time in the planning,” continued Sherlock. “She’s the one who encouraged you to get the job as Magnussen’s PA before the wedding.”

“Yeah,” said Janine. “She said she needed someone to keep an eye on him since her ex David wasn’t working there anymore. He was one of Magnussen’s bodyguards, I can’t remember if you knew that. Anyway, that was ages ago. Then this position came up. I didn’t want to go for it but it was way more money and she said I could help her. She didn’t say how exactly at the time, but she’d told me there was some history between her and Magnussen so I wanted to help. It’s— It’s been hard,” she said, her voice faltering. “He’s— God, you can’t imagine what it’s like working for him. The things he does, he— I mean, I put up with it because she’s my best friend but I’m so glad that’s over now and he won’t have any excuse to touch me anymore.”

Sherlock’s insides twisted uncomfortably. “Did he assault you?”

“Ah, that’d actually be _normal_ , you know!” She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. Except, kind of like that, only really weird and creepy. He just finds your weak spot and— I wish he was the one who got shot that night. You have no idea what he’s like.”

“Well, let’s assume for a moment that he visited me while I was in intensive care and made some thinly veiled threats to my masculinity, and that I therefore do have some idea what he’s like. So you took the job to help Mary?” 

“Yeah. It’s what you do, right, do things to help your friends?”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, the picture clearing now he had more clues. “Mary wanted to retrieve something from Magnussen’s office that night. Probably something Magnussen told her he had a few months, maybe even years ago—” 

Sherlock pictured Magnussen showing Mary some undefined piece of evidence. Looking more closely at his mental image, he could see John’s engagement ring on her finger.

“Not that many years. It must have been after she met John,” he said thoughtfully. “After I came back, in fact. Magnussen collects information on everyone, but he only goes after people who are useful to him at the point when they become useful. Perhaps my return triggered his interest.”

Janine laughed. “I know you’ve got some ego, but this isn’t necessarily about you!”

_“Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk,” said Irene, walking towards Sherlock in the aircraft full of corpses, her hips swaying seductively._

_“So do I,” said Sherlock. “There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on.”_

_Irene walked straight past him towards Mycroft. “Not you, Junior. You’re done now.”_

“True, it’s usually about my brother,” he said with a laugh. “In many ways, I’ll always be Holmes Minor. Long story. Suffice it to say it’s likely that Magnussen upped the pressure when he realised John and I had resumed our professional partnership. He is, as you said, adept at finding and exploiting people’s weak spots.”

He remembered Mary’s panic at the wedding when he told her about the pregnancy. “Mary initially thought that she could keep him quiet indefinitely. But her pregnancy was a game-changer. She decided she needed to retrieve the incriminating evidence and remove the threat to her newfound happiness. She confided in you, disclosing just enough about her plan to ensure your cooperation without revealing her secret.”

He imagined Janine and Mary having a girly chat in a café, as little as two weeks ago. Mary was talking in a low voice, glancing around furtively, while Janine looked shocked and sympathetic.

“To give you plausible deniability, Mary asked you to provide her with a list of dates when Magnussen would be in London but temporarily absent from his office. Presumably, like me, she had reason to believe that he kept the evidence close at hand.” 

John and Mary were at the surgery after John returned from his encounter with Sherlock and Janine at Baker Street, talking about the events of that morning. “By a happy coincidence, John announced that he was going out with me on a case the same evening that Magnussen was due to be out of the office.” Mary looked thoughtful and determined when John turned away to go into his consulting room. “She decided to act. As agreed, she didn’t tell you, but used the information you gave her to access the building.”

Dressed in her black burglar’s outfit later that evening, Mary watched from across the street as the cleaners entered the building. She waited until one of the janitors started to pull out the heavy communal bins, rolling them two at a time onto the pavement at the foot of the tower; it was a simple matter to slip past him, concealed by the bulky wheelie bins. Once inside, she avoided the security cameras, timing her movements to theirs and exploiting their blind spots based on information provided by David some months before. Then she keyed in the code Janine had given her for the rear service lift and went up to the top floor. 

“Once she was in, she knocked out the white supremacist bodyguard in the main office area before sneaking up on you in reception and knocking you out as well, unaware that you had just let us in and we were at that very moment coming up in the lift.” 

Sherlock’s mental view panned from Mary creeping into Magnussen’s office over to John and himself standing in the main lift as it whizzed up to the 32nd floor.

“Of course, when she entered his office, Mary found Magnussen sitting at his desk. Perhaps he told her the evidence was in his flat, or maybe she realised someone was coming up in his private lift and decided it would be easier to deal with him upstairs. Either way, I came in on them when she was threatening him.” 

He briefly relived the moment Mary raised the gun and shot him, picturing himself falling backward in slow motion.

“I was going to kill him,” said Mary. “But I couldn’t do it when I realised you were there with John.”

“That was all about me,” said John, wrapping his arm around her. “She shot you to protect me. Funny the effect I have on people.”

“Yes.” Sherlock blinked and realised Janine was asking him a question.

“What happened? I mean, who shot you? Was it one of the bodyguards? The police said it was the burglar, but that would mean Mary did it, and I don’t think—Mary didn’t do it, did she?”

“You always underestimate women,” pointed out Mary. She indicated Janine. “But we’re not actually stupid.”

Sherlock reviewed what he remembered. Mary shooting him in the chest. Magnussen’s mobile phone on the floor.

“Oh Sherlock. I don’t understand. Mary really likes you!”

“Yes, I know. But she likes John better.” He pictured Mary picking up the phone and making a call as she left the room. “It’s all right. She wasn’t trying to kill me, just create enough of a distraction to allow her to leave the building unnoticed.”

_“You’re absolutely sure about that?” asked Sherlock, struggling to enunciate clearly. It was only three days since the shooting and he was still very weak. Also, he was trying to hide the phone from the window onto the corridor._

_“Yeah,” said his contact at the London Ambulance Service. “The other call was from your Dr Watson, but the first call, the one Nadiya took, was a woman. She didn’t leave any details.”_

“Whatever Magnussen has on her, it threatens her relationship with John. Or she believes it does. People become quite unreasonable when it comes to matters of the heart. I should know, my whole career is built on it.”

“Don’t pretend you’ve never been unreasonable when it came to matters of the heart,” said Mycroft.

Janine shook her head. “I told her she should just tell him. I mean, she’s never told me what it is, but if she wants to be with him forever, it’s better if their relationship isn’t built on a lie. Especially not if it means someone like Magnussen can blackmail her.

“But she’s got it into her head that he’ll leave her if he finds out. I told her even if she was, I don’t know, a porn star or something, he’ll be okay with it if he really loves her. She said it was nothing like that, but didn’t give any details, just that she wasn’t the person John thought he had fallen in love with.” 

In the café, Janine was still radiating well-meaning concern, but Mary was laughing bitterly. 

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s so sad. She said she never thought she’d ever be this lucky, to have a husband like John and raise a baby with him. She’s absolutely terrified he’ll leave her. She said he might have forgiven her for what she did if she’d told him when they first met, but now he was never going to forgive her for lying to him for two years.”

“I think she underestimates John's capacity for forgiveness,” said Sherlock with a wry smile.

_“Please, John, forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you.”_

_Kneeling on the lino-covered floor of the tube car, Sherlock raised his hands in supplication._

_“No, no, no, no, no, no,” said John, pointing at him. “This is a trick. Another one of your bloody tricks.”_

_“No.” Well, technically, it was, but he'd tell John about that in a minute._

_“You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”_

_Maybe John wasn't quite as naive as Sherlock assumed; not the first time he'd underestimated his erstwhile companion. Sherlock chuckled. “Not this time.”_

_“It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like—” John interrupted himself and turned away. Was he actually fighting back tears? Sherlock got off the floor and sat on a nearby seat. The defused bomb lay between them in the cavity in the floor, its timer glitching on 1:28. How did John not notice that?_

_This was an opportunity, though. John clearly thought he was about to die, and most people in that situation were more truthful than they might otherwise be. There had been a distance between them since Sherlock came back. He worked up some tears to add to the realism of the situation._

_Sherlock looked up when John stamped, physically fighting his own inhibitions._

_“I wanted you not to be dead,” he said softly._

_“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there,” John grimaced and turned away, shaking his head as Sherlock continued, “and you’d still have a future with Mary.”_

_What if that was spoiled too? Their jaunt across London hadn't been enough to tell him much about Mary except that she had a cool head in a crisis, but John had always been looking for Miss Right. What if Mary was it and Sherlock had ruined everything? He bit his fist and tried to look anguished, hoping to speed up whatever John was gearing up to say. It wouldn't be long before the police came or John noticed the timer._

_“Look, I find it difficult,” said John. Sherlock lowered his head and nodded. “I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”_

_Sherlock looked up at him. “I know.”_

_“You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known,” said John slowly, his voice choked with emotion. He sighed. “Yes, of course I forgive you.”_

“I know!” said Janine with a helpless gesture. “He forgave you! I told her that. He’ll be angry but she’s his wife and he loves her. Of course he’ll forgive her.”

Sherlock watched John and Mary standing in Janine’s living-room, looking down at the baby in Mary’s arms. “Yes. He’ll forgive her.”

He shook himself back to reality as his phone vibrated. He checked the text message and pulled himself to his feet. “But now, I need to go.”

Janine stood up to hand him the projector. It was bulky and he lurched a little as he took it.

“Are you okay?” Janine put her arm on his with concern. “Do you want me to carry that? Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

“No, I’d like you to stay here and call a cab to go to Leinster Gardens. I’ll wait for it downstairs.” He manoeuvred the projector into a more comfortable position. “I’ll be fine. I have help at the other end.” 

Wiggins was on his way to Leinster Gardens after moving the furniture at 221B as instructed. Another homeless acquaintance was keeping tabs on John. The projector had been a spur of the moment inspiration, but Sherlock now knew exactly what he wanted to do with it. Things were shaping up nicely and he felt better already now he had a plan.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I promise I will be back in hospital by morning and everything will be fine,” he assured her, though she didn’t look convinced. He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Goodbye, Janine. Enjoy your new life.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end at last... Thank you to everyone who stuck with it despite the glacial pace of updating!

_“How does it feel to kill a man?”_

_Sherlock turned abruptly, startled by the question. “What are you doing here?”_

_“Come to help my little brother,” said Mycroft with an icy smile. He handed Sherlock a cigarette and lit it for him. “I have to say, I never had you down as the type to kill a man in the name of love.”_

_“I didn’t kill him in the name of love!” protested Sherlock. “He was convicted of first degree murder and capital drug trafficking. A simple majority of the jury returned the advisory sentence of death. He has just been given a lethal injection by a private citizen paid $150 for the privilege. I don’t see how you can blame me!”_

_“Your friend’s father died six years ago. You secured Hudson’s arrest nearly four years ago but you have lobbied for his execution ever since. You travelled 4,000 miles to be here when it happened. I agree he was an unpleasant man; his wife certainly seemed happy to see him die. But your obsession with his case does rather suggest you are emotionally involved.”_

_“Nonsense,” grumbled Sherlock, flicking his cigarette._

_Mycroft exhaled a long plume of smoke and watched it shimmer in the sunlight pouring into the corridor at the Florida State Prison. “Given all the effort you went to, it’s rather fortunate that the governor decided not to grant him a last minute reprieve, isn’t it?”_

_Sherlock scowled at him. Even in those days, when he was barely in his thirties, Mycroft was prone to bragging about the power he wielded through his secret job at Whitehall, but Sherlock doubted his influence extended to Florida of all places. Then on the other hand, Mycroft had cultivated the acquaintance of quite a few Americans while he was still at university._

_No doubt sensing his brother’s confusion and enjoying it very much, Mycroft switched on a smile. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s go home.”_

Sherlock stared out of the window, paying little attention to the airfield visible in the distance as they drove down the B-road. He remembered the elation he had felt when Hudson died and wondered why he didn’t feel the same sense of satisfaction now.

“Because Magnussen was boring,” said Moriarty, sitting beside him in the car. “Getting Hudson executed was a challenge. You had to find him and then convince other people of his guilt. You needed all your powers of deduction and persuasion. Magnussen was different. Shooting people in the head is easy. You don’t need an impressive intellect. You just need a gun.”

“I am doing you a favour here,” pointed out Mycroft, sitting on the other side of Moriarty. He sighed dramatically. “I always knew you were an idiot. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that you would be stupid enough to murder an unarmed man in front of witnesses using John Watson’s illegal gun. A gun which, incidentally, was also involved in the unsolved shooting of a cab driver five years ago.”

Sherlock pointedly continued to look out of the window. He wasn’t about to admit he had had a moment’s panic when he realised the gun could be traced back to Jeff Hope’s death. The point of shooting Magnussen after Mycroft arrived was to make sure nobody would accuse John, not to implicate him in an old murder case. Fortunately, the gun had mysteriously disappeared and all Mycroft’s minions had testified that they had seen a masked man shoot Magnussen and run away from the scene. The “masked man” would no doubt be found killed in an accident at some point in the near future, bringing the case and its surrounding media furore to an abrupt close.

“Mycroft is right. You didn’t think that one through, did you?” Moriarty grinned at him. “If you hadn’t completely messed up Lady Smallwood’s case because it was so _boring_ and you’re a pathological liar, Janine would have got you the letters, your client’s husband wouldn’t have committed suicide and you wouldn’t have had to murder Magnussen at all.”

“Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you out of this one?” continued Mycroft.

“You enjoy pulling strings,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s your hobby.”

“These are more strings than even I like to pull. Enough people—important people—know the truth that I can’t be seen letting you get away with murder. You have been a liability quite long enough in the eyes of my employers.” 

“Sorry for being so inconvenient,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “Meanwhile, Magnussen was the unfortunate victim of a bungled break-in, so after a few weeks of house arrest, I _am_ getting away with murder.”

“Hardly. I stand by my assertion that you won’t last six months,” said Mycroft, looking straight ahead and giving Sherlock no clues as to his true emotions.

Sherlock laughed. “You do realise I survived two years without you. I’m sure I can make it six months.”

“Perhaps. Provided you are still as strongly motivated to return.” The seriousness of Mycroft’s tone caught Sherlock by surprise. “But I think you do need some time away from … London. It’s clouding your judgement. You made an unbelievable mess of Lady Smallwood’s case. So consider this mission a challenge. I will concede defeat if you come out of it alive.” He smiled sardonically and handed Sherlock a handful of envelopes. “Oh, I forgot. Mrs Hudson wanted me to give you these cards you received at Baker Street while you were staying with our parents. Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock took the cards and put them in the inside pocket of his coat. It was just like Mycroft to withhold Christmas cards until mid-January. They fell silent as the car drove onto the airfield. Sherlock could see the small plane up ahead, ready to take him on this mission he might never return from. Because Mycroft was right: he didn’t feel he needed to rush back this time. Even though he had been called back by Mycroft in the end, the idea that he would resume his life with John when he returned had kept Sherlock going last time. Now… Now things were different.

Maybe this really was the end. Perhaps now was the moment to give up on the lies and discuss all the things left unsaid.

“Mycroft, why didn’t you tell me about Mary?” he asked conversationally.

Mycroft sighed. “How long did it take you, a whole year to work that one out?”

“You knew,” said Sherlock accusingly. “You knew all along!”

“Of course I did. You don’t think I could keep a weather eye on John Watson without thoroughly investigating his new girlfriend? I know everything Magnussen knew.” He faced Sherlock for a moment, then lowered his eyes. “I didn’t tell you for the same reason you never investigated her yourself. I didn’t want to burden you with the responsibility of breaking John Watson’s heart a second time.” He paused, pursing his thin lips a moment before continuing. “Of course, I didn’t expect her to _shoot_ you. If she hadn’t been pregnant…”

“Ah yes. I thought that was the reason.” Sherlock nodded. “Still some shred of human dignity behind the cold façade after all.”

“I’m assuming it’s the same reason you didn’t take advantage of John’s estrangement from his wife to resume your previous living arrangements. A very altruistic, some might even say _romantic_ gesture.”

“I’d made other arrangements,” grumbled Sherlock.

  
_Sherlock could hear John’s footsteps on the stairs. He put away the laptop and rearranged his blanket and pillows to create the right balance between “I’m getting better so you should reconcile with your pregnant wife” and “I’m poorly so you should pander to my every need”. He had just about found a reasonable compromise by sitting up on the sofa rather than lying down when John entered, carrying a travel bag._

_“Ah, John. How was the holiday?”_

_“Great,” said John glumly. His trip to ‘clear his head’ at his cousin’s on the coast didn’t seem to have cheered him up much. He took a look at Sherlock in the middle of the sofa, with his laptop on one side and a pile of pillows on the other. Then he looked at the place where his chair used to be. “You moved my chair again.”_

_“Yes, we decided the living-room looked more spacious without it.”_

_John sat on one of the chairs at Sherlock’s desk, turning it around to face the sofa. “We?”_

_“Would you like some tea?” Sherlock rang the bell on the coffee table._

_“You have a b—Of_ course _you have a bell,” said John, shaking his head._

_After a brief pause, Wiggins–or rather, Billy, as Sherlock now knew him–appeared in the kitchen doorway, still carrying the sponge and toilet brush he’d been using to clean the bathroom. “You rang, Shez? Oh, hullo, Dr Watson. How was the holiday?”_

_“’We’,” said Sherlock with a sweep of his arm. “I am solving London’s homeless crisis one person at a time.”_

_“You’re living with your drug dealer?” said John in disbelief. “That’s convenient.”_

_“Oi, who are you calling names?” said Billy, straightening up with dignity and waving the toilet brush at him. “I’m a reformed character, I am.” He put the cleaning utensils down and peeled off his gloves, then went over and moved Sherlock’s laptop so he could sit beside him on the sofa. “Mrs Watson has entrusted me with the very important task of looking after Shez and I’m taking that very seriously. Regular exercise, regular meals, regular rest, absolutely no non-prescription drugs.”_

_“Unfortunately,” grumbled Sherlock, leaning forward while Billy fluffed the pillows behind him._

_“Mrs Watson charged you with looking after him?” John scowled at Sherlock. “That’s nice of her.”_

_“Isn’t it just?” agreed Sherlock with a smirk._

_“Yep, she visits every other day. Says I’m Sherlock’s guardian angel, I am,” said Billy, gently placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to ease him back into the pillows. “I’m going to nurture him back to health and then he’s going to take me on cases with him and teach me everything he knows so I can have his job and all his stuff when he gets killed.”_

_“I see,” said John icily. “A good deal for all involved.”_

_“You know, you should talk to Mrs Watson,” continued Billy, oblivious to John’s warning look. “I mean, I don’t know what that’s all about, you know, you splitting up when she’s up the duff and all. But you know, what she did in her past is what she did and that’s her business. But what she does from now on is what really matters, innit? Like, her future is your business. See what I mean?”_

_“Erm, kind of,” said John, giving Sherlock a puzzled look._

_“I’m sure you can think of better wording if you give it some thought,” added Sherlock encouragingly. “Now, I took the liberty of contacting your old neighbour, Mrs Whitney, and it turns out she has a spare room…”_  


“Yes, I noticed you had found another flatmate,” said Mycroft. “I suppose I should see that as a step in the right direction. Since you seem incapable of living without becoming emotionally involved with other human beings, if you do come back, will you promise me to seek out other friends? Preferably ones with no history of killing people, either for the government or for money. Those types just attract trouble.”

Sherlock was tempted to retort that he wasn’t emotionally involved, but instead, he sank further into the leather seat and said nothing.

The car drew up beside the airplane. Sherlock got out and breathed in the sharp cold air while Mycroft discussed the practical arrangements for the flight with the pilot. Another car was approaching in the distance and Sherlock’s heart did that strange summersault that came over it sometimes when he thought about John. No, he couldn’t in all honesty tell Mycroft that he wasn’t emotionally attached to John.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you? It’s a shame you didn’t work it out back when you were living with him,” said Moriarty. “Think of all the fun you could have had!”

“He isn’t gay, though,” said Mary. “He wouldn’t have wanted you.” 

“Even if he had, it would have changed things between you,” explained Molly. “You wouldn’t have been his best friend anymore.”

“John liked you because you were dangerous, but deep down inside, he always wanted a wife and kids,” said Mary.

  
_“Well, you’re hardly going to need_ me _around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.”_  


“Anyway, he would have gone all weird, knowing you were gay,” said Lestrade. “Blokes can be funny about that kind of thing.”

Lestrade had never been funny about it, even though he first met Sherlock in the gay bar. It had only occurred to Sherlock recently that Lestrade and Angelo, and indeed most people he met, thought he was gay.

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” said Janine. “And that’s all right. You should learn to be honest with people.”

Sherlock shrugged away the thoughts as the second car came to a halt and the Watsons got out. Sherlock embraced Mary with pleasure. Ironically, they had become closer friends than they had been before Mary shot him; her frequent visits to check up on his health had given him welcome company before she convinced him to let Billy move in. He hadn’t seen the Watsons since Christmas, but Mary had kept in touch while he stayed at his parents and he was pleased they were back together now.

They all exchanged pleasantries as if Sherlock was off on some business trip, until Sherlock asked for a moment to say goodbye to John. He wanted to make it a more honest goodbye than the prepared “suicide note” speech he had given last time, but they ended up talking about baby names and Mycroft before Sherlock could bring himself to be more serious and act on his new determination to be honest.

“John, there’s something I should say, I—I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

_I love you._

Sherlock paused. Now that he had started to speak, he wasn’t so sure this was the time for blurted declarations of love. How would John even react?

“Embarrassment,” said Molly. “He’ll be mortified.”

“Or he might take you up on it and leave his wife and child,” suggested Moriarty gleefully.

  
_“I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there,_ always _, for all three of you.”_  


No, revealing his feelings at this late stage wouldn’t be the best thing for all three of them. Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips as a way out of the conversation came to mind.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

They laughed at the joke, and shook hands, and it was okay. John’s eyes immediately went back to Mary and Sherlock was fine. He’d kept his vow; the Watsons were back together, which was the best thing for the baby, and for John. Sherlock was fine.

Then he was alone on the plane as it took off, and the satisfaction started to wane. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the arduous mission ahead. Last time he’d left, he had been looking forward to coming back. The vision of John waiting for him in Baker Street had kept him going for two years. Never mind, he told himself firmly. Mycroft was right; he could find himself some new friends. A new beginning. 

The satellite phone in the corner of the cabin rang, and the minion who was serving as air steward for the one-way trip answered it before handing it to Sherlock.

“Funny how quickly your mind adapts, isn’t it?” said his imaginary Moriarty after he had talked to Mycroft and the plane was turning back towards the airfield. “A moment ago, you were resigned to a suicide mission and now, you’re heading back to another adventure, teaming up with John Watson to fight me. Just like old times!” He gave Sherlock a cheeky smile. “Admit it, Sherlock. You _did_ miss me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

He stared at the blank space where Moriarty had been. He realised that was true; life had been both boring and emotionally taxing these last two years. He had had no overarching purpose in life other than preparing John’s wedding, even as it brought him to the very gradual realisation that he was in love with the bridegroom.

“All a bit pathetic, isn’t it?” said his inner Mycroft.

Seeking a distraction from those thoughts, Sherlock pulled out the Christmas cards from his inside pocket. A cheery robin from Scotland Yard; a generic Seasons Greetings from the clinic where he had been treated; an anonymous With Sympathy card from Pentonville Prison–someone clearly had a grudge–and one handwritten envelope containing a sparkly M&S card.

_Merry Christmas, loverboy_  
_Didn’t take me long to replace you! Also, bees are brilliant!_  
_Janine XOX_  
_PS: no hard feelings. Give us a call!_

Hugs and kisses. Inside the envelope, he found a printed photograph of Janine with her arm around a golden retriever. Sherlock smiled, and was relieved to find, when he turned over the picture, that she had named the dog Sunshine, not Sherlock.

_”You shouldn’t have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are ... but we could have been friends.”_

He looked out at the grey sky as the plane started its descent back to the airfield. His grip tightened on the Marks and Spencer’s Christmas card and he promised himself a trip to Sussex when all this was over. 


End file.
